Chuck: The Echo of Memory
by Rational Expectations
Summary: Series reboot fanfic. Roughly 10 after the Finale, Chuck is a sad widower with two children. Once again, Chuck finds himself living with Ellie & Devon and working at the Buy More. But on the 3rd anniversary of Sarah's death, an old friend sends him an email that will change his life... (now COMPLETE).
1. Once More Unto The Breach

**Author's Note:**

This is my take on how to reboot the series sometime in the near future. My intent was to try to capture the tenor of the "hero's journey" from the original series - which started with Chuck in a very low place, and then gradually saw his fortunes rise (until the last two episodes. . . ugh). So that begged the question: how to "reboot" Chuck into a low place?

My solution was a bit unconventional: kill off Sarah, and start the "series" with Chuck as a depressed widower. Then have Ellie & Devon (and their children) move back in with him to help him take care of his kids, find a plausible reason for Chuck to be back at the Buy More . . . and suddenly you've got a premise that's similar to the original pilot . . . but different enough that it's not a pure rehash.

As can be expected, this story starts out sad, but becomes happier (or at least bittersweet). _For those of you who don't like the Chuck of Chapters 1 & 2, keep reading. He evolves as the story progresses. He's a different Chuck by Chapter 8, and even more different by, say, Chapter 15._

The story can be roughly, but imperfectly, divided into two unofficial "parts." Part 1 goes from Chapters 1-20 and is, more or less, something like a rebooted series. Unofficial part 2 is something different. It begins at the end of Chapter 20 and goes through the end of the series. The later chapters are considerably longer, so the two parts - which do tell one cohesive story - are roughly equal in size.

For those who decide not to read the whole thing, there's a big twist around Chapter 12, and the story reaches two mini-climaxes (Chapter 20, and then Chapters 26-28.) The _**true **_last chapter is Chapter 30 ("Last Dance"). Chapter 31 is just a little something extra. A "post-credits" scene, not the conclusion or even an epilogue.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, or any of these characters. I'm not making any money for this.

Disclaimer 2: I apologize in advance for occasional typo. I probably could have used a beta reader, but didn't have one.

* * *

**April 17, 2022 Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Images of Sarah flashed in Chuck's mind:

"_You're my home Chuck."_

"_You're a gift."_

"_It is real."_

"_I do. Again and again."_

"_Would you like to meet your son?"_

"_I'll be home around 7:00 tonight."_

*Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep* the alarm blasted. Chuck smacked his hand on the snooze button and threw the pillow over his face.

"Get up, little brother!" a frustrated Ellie called out, wrestling the pillow off Chuck, tossing it aside, and shaking his shoulders. "I've already dressed and fed the kids this morning for you, again, and I'll get them to school, but you need to get to work." She added.

"Ellie, you know what today is, right?" Chuck asked, half awake. Ellie nodded softly. Today marked three years. Three years since Sarah died. Three years since Chuck entered a shell of near catatonic depression.

"And you're coming tonight?" he asked.

"Of course I am. We'll all be there." She answered.

"Casey too?" Chuck inquired.

"No, Casey can't make it. But he said he would have something special for you later, to help you remember her." Ellie responded.

Chuck sighed. He was hoping on seeing Casey. He hadn't seen him since Carmichael Industries folded, a few months after Sarah passed. Blowing off meetings, missing deadlines, and not returning phone calls would quickly destroy any small business, even a successful one. Then, once General Beckman pulled the consulting contracts that formed much of their revenue, the jig was up. He wondered what Casey was up to. The last he heard, Casey was working as a "consultant" for the Department of Defense – a description that could mean anything.

Grudgingly, Chuck got out of bed. Like most days, he didn't bother to shower. In fact, it had been six days since his last one - and that happened only after Devon practically threw him under the water. Chuck stank. But he didn't care. Throwing on an unwashed t-shirt, and wrapping his body in the uniform of a Nerd Herder, Chuck left his room.

"Daddy!" called out a little girl with golden hair and blue eyes. Chuck didn't want to admit it, but it sometimes hurt a bit to look at her. At just over five years, she looked more and more like Sarah every day. As her resemblance to Sarah grew, Chuck's feeling of loss only magnified. And her name. _That_ name.

"Hi princess," was all Chuck could muster.

"Are you taking us to school today?" Diana asked, scanning the room towards her older brother Stephen, and her cousins Clara and Peter.

"No, not today. Your Aunt Ellie is on duty. But I'll see you all tonight." Chuck responded. Diana looked just a little disappointed. Steven sat indifferently, not acknowledging his father's presence.

Chuck left, grabbed his bike, and began his 15-minute commute to the Buy More. _That_ Buy More.

Why did he do it? It was a question Chuck sometimes asked to himself. He didn't need the money. Ex-spies make sure they are well prepared for an early demise. Maybe an old enemy will take revenge. Maybe it will be the draw of one last mission. Maybe the human body will just break down from years of beatings, shootings, tranqs, and painkillers. Whatever the cause, Sarah's $7 million in life insurance benefits removed any financial pressure, even after the collapse of their business. It was more than enough to pay off the mortgage on their stately six-bedroom home, with a little over $5 million left over, plus a few million in cash and other assets that Chuck and Sarah had earned over the years. Chuck could remain his depressed, useless self for the rest of his life, and still have enough to get by comfortably, even with two kids.

But the Buy More was something to do. Somewhere to go. Something familiar. Something with no pressure. Someplace with Morgan, still the Store Manager. It's not like they were still close the way they used to be. They rarely hung out anymore. Chuck didn't have the energy. But he found comfort just in being around his still-bearded friend every day. Aside from Morgan, the Buy More was special for another reason. It was a place with memories. Memories of her. Every now and then, he saw ghosts; phantoms of her coming in. Giving him a cover kiss on the cheek, offering him a frozen yogurt, or calling him out to Castle. Some people couldn't stand to be constantly around such memories. But Chuck Bartowski was a man who lived in the past, to the extent he lived at all.

The hours passed slowly. But 6:00 p.m. eventually came, and Chuck left the store, accompanied by Morgan. They drove together to the beach. To _their_ beach.

By the time they got there, Ellie, Devon, and the kids were already there. Carina Miller was there too, along with a few of Sarah's old spy buddies. Sarah's mom, Emma, and her sister, Molly, arrived a few minutes later. Alex, Morgan's ex-wife, also came, but stayed a respectable distance away from the main gathering. Alex waived to Morgan, flashing him a small smile. Morgan nodded, and turned away. He didn't approach her all night.

Chuck commenced the annual memorial. "Thank you all for coming again this year. As most of you know, it was on this beach where Sarah first found me, and told me that I could trust her. And, five years later, after the 'Accident,' it was on this beach where I found her, and got her to trust me. It was a long road back for us. But, as she gradually recovered her memories, we reconnected. And, exactly one year after we met on this beach a second time, we came here to renew our vows. And every year after, we came here. . . ." Chuck stopped. He was crying profusely. "I miss you baby. We were so happy." Chuck had five minutes of remarks planned. But he couldn't continue. The tears were too intense.

"Stevie, would you like to say something?" Ellie asked. Steven was non-responsive, a frown on his face. After ten seconds of silence he ran, bypassed Chuck, and hugged Ellie's legs intensely.

"What about you, Diana? Would you like to speak?" Ellie inquired.

"I don't remember you Mommy, but I know you're with the Angels now." Diana responded.

It went on, each of the attendees taking turns and saying a few words. Everyone except Alex, who stood still and passed on the chance to say something. As the gathering broke up, Emma approached Chuck.

"How are you doing, Chuck, really?" She asked.

"I'm fine." He responded.

"You didn't have to cut us, cut me off." She said, voicing sadness and sympathy, not anger.

"You see the kids plenty, Ellie makes sure of it." Chuck responded, his eyes trying to look everywhere but her face.

"You're still my family too. I worry about you. Sarah wouldn't want . . . this." Emma said. She reached out, trying to softly grasp Chuck's hand. He flinched, pulling it away.

"I'm sorry. I know. And you're right. But, I look at you, and I see Sarah in 25 years. I see us, together, in 25 years. The future we'll never have. I just . . . can't." Chuck replied. He turned his back, and walked away silently.

Chuck, Ellie, Devon, and the kids all returned home to the house they shared.

As Ellie looked at the brother, non-responsive in the car, she thought back. Her life wasn't supposed to turn out this way this way. She, Devon, and their kids were happy in Chicago. Frozen solid from November through April, but happy. Then she got the phone call. She boarded the next plane to Los Angeles. For four days, she watched the children while Chuck kept a bedside vigil over Sarah. Then, when Sarah finally passed, she watched her brother fall apart. It took Ellie's last ounce of strength to even get him to the memorial service. Once they returned home, he collapsed into bed. And, aside from bathroom breaks, he refused to get up, even to bathe Steven and Diana.

The end result was that, for Ellie, a visit that was supposed to last a few days became a week, then two weeks, then a month. Emma did what she could to assist. But she lived two hours away and needed had to take care of Molly, who still had school. And, unlike Ellie, Emma had no one Awesome to help with childcare. By the time Ellie's visit extended to six weeks, she looked at her emotionally comatose little brother and knew she had to return to Los Angeles full-time. She gave notice at work. A little more than a month later, after the school year ended, Devon gave his own notice and joined her with the kids.

It wasn't all bad, Ellie thought. Chuck and Sarah's house was large enough to accommodate the extended Barkowski-Woodcomb clan, where she, Devon. and their kids lived rent-free. Clara quickly took to Diana as the younger sister she always wanted. Steven and Peter were almost the same age. They became fast friends and, ultimately, brothers. And Ellie and Devon adored their niece and nephew. Ellie had always wanted a big family. She thought her own battle with uterine cancer had dashed those dreams. But, like the legend of the Monkey's Paw, misfortune granted her wish.

But Chuck. . . he just didn't get better. Nearly three years later, and he could barely manage to feed himself. Ellie had found herself the _de facto_ mother to four little kids (only two of them her own), and one very overgrown big kid. Each night, she thanked the god she didn't believe in for Devon. No other man would have been so kind, so understanding, and so giving to her and her entire screwed up family.

After they returned from Sarah's memorial, Chuck went straight to his room, while Ellie and Devon struggled to get the kids ready for bed. After fidgeting around for a few minutes, Chuck turned on his computer. Opening his inbox, he saw a new email from Casey. The subject line was "In Memory of Sarah."

"Hey Ellie, Casey didn't forget!" Chuck called out. "That's good Chuck, I'll be over in a minute," Ellie responded.

Not waiting for Ellie, Chuck opened the email. It turned out to be a slideshow. Pictures of the three of them, taken throughout the years. A tear fell from Chuck's eye, as he stared at the screen transfixed. "Ellie, this is amazing. I didn't think the big oaf had it in him." Chuck yelled.

Suddenly, the slideshow's pace quickened. Images of Sarah sped by, then were replaced with random pictures. Flowers, buildings, turtles, machines. Tens of thousands of pictures, perhaps millions. Chuck sat spellbound, looking at the images stream by for over an hour.

"Not again." Chuck said, as he fell backwards and passed out.

Ellie watched the entire event, peaking through the door to Chuck's room. As she watched her brother absorb the Intersect images, a big smile grew on her face.


	2. First Mission

**Author's Note:** I still don't own Chuck or any of these characters. Still not making money on this. Also, I like reviews.

* * *

**April 18, 2022, Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"Wake up, num-nuts." Casey blasted, looking down on Chuck, who was still passed out on the floor of his room.

Chuck opened his eyes, slowly. He saw the imposing figures of John Casey, Eleanor Woodcomb, Devon Woodcomb, and Morgan Grimes looking down at him.

"You didn't!" Chuck said, grumpily and not fully awake.

"I did," Casey replied, grinning.

"Why? Why would you do this to me? I've been free of that damn thing for seven years." Chuck asked, an engine of rage gradually burning away his sleepiness.

Ellie chimed in, hesitating at first. "It was my idea. You needed something, you needed this."

Chuck's body convulsed, shaken with surprise. Chuck turned to Morgan, "Et tu, Brute?" Morgan nodded back, softly yet affirmatively.

"We were done. I was done. I have a family now. Two kids. I can't afford to abandon them, to run off and get myself hurt or dead." Chuck replied.

Ellie answered him with frustration. "Chuck, you are dead. You've been dead for the past three years . . . or you might as well be. You don't do anything. You sit around and mope all day. You ignore your children, Chuck. I did this once before. When Mom left, and Dad spaced out. Chuck, you're worse than Dad was, and I can't take it anymore. I'm tired of being the mother to all our kids while babysitting my zombified brother. I've tried everything else . . ." Ellie gasped. She had rehearsed what she would say at this moment a hundred times. But, when the time came, words spewed from her mouth like vomit. She hadn't meant to have been so harsh.

Chuck just sat there, reserved. He knew she was right. And he hated himself for it. He hated what he had become. But didn't see a light at the end of the tunnel. Even video games and comic books tasted like ash to him, as they had for the past three years. He just had no energy to do anything.

Casey jumped in, "The fact is, kid, you're the only one whose ever been able to handle the Intersect properly. When we approached General Beckman with our idea, she was overjoyed."

Morgan then spoke "If you want to honor Sarah's memory, help people. Help yourself."

"This life killed Sarah!" Chuck exclaimed.

"It didn't," Casey answered, "She had a stroke while driving, and crashed her car. You know that."

"Healthy 41 year-old women don't get strokes. They just don't. Someone did something to her." Chuck replied.

"Chuck, the tox screen came back negative. The autopsy was clean." Ellie answered.

"Maybe it was something cutting edge, something undetectable. Or maybe it was left over damage from the faulty intersect, or all the blows to the head, all the concussions, all the tranqs and drugs. It was this _*life*_." Chuck cried.

Casey responded: "Or maybe it was just a bad break. It happens kid. Whatever. Sarah's still dead. You can't change that. But you can get off your sorry ass and start being the man she fell in love with. What have you got going on anyway, the frelling Buy More?"

Now it was Ellie's turn to plead: "Chuck, consider it. If not for me, for Sarah. It would break her to see you like this, wasting away."

"Everything I did, I did for Sarah. I can't do this without her." Chuck responded.

"That's a lie and you know it," Casey responded, "You didn't run into a ballroom and defuse a bomb to impress a pretty blond you just met. You did it because you're a good person. And, though you'll never admit it, you did it because you get off on helping people."

"And what if I get hurt? What will happen to the kids?" Chuck asked.

Ellie put her hand on his arm, and stroked it in a calming fashion. "We've taken steps to reduce that risk. But Chuck, they have me. They have Devon. We're not going anywhere. Maybe, with this, you can come back to us."

Devon nodded affirmatively, "We're here for you little bro," he said.

Chuck let out a large sigh. "Dailies. I'll review the dailies and see if I flash on anything. I can do that."

"It's a start. We need to set up something secure in your room, shouldn't take long. then I'll start sending them to you." Casey responded.

As the intervention broke up, Casey took Morgan aside, in private. "Morgan, can I speak to you for a few minutes?"

Morgan answered: "It's about Alex, isn't it. I saw her at the memorial. It was sweet of her to come."

Casey grunted. "Look, this isn't my thing, but she asked me to speak with you. I love my daughter. I know she screwed up, big time. She knows it too"

"We both made mistakes," Morgan volunteered.

"Whatever. The point is, for reasons I don't understand, she loves you. You're both single again. Think about it."

* * *

It took a few days to install the necessary equipment. A part of Chuck dreaded returning to this life. But, to his own surprise, he found himself looking forward to the first daily. It was something to do, at least. Something that didn't involve interacting with people. Just reading and analyzing information, by himself. That he could work with.

Chuck spent two hours going over the first daily NSA report, when images began coming to his head. A calendar, a bank, social media posts. He called Casey.

"Did you have something for me Chuck?" Casey asked.

"Nothing definitive. But I've got a bad feeling about something." Chuck answered, hemming-and-hawing, then explaining his theory.

Four hours later, Casey called back. "Chuck, I'm texting you an address. Can you meet me ASAP? There's something you'll want to see."

Chuck got off the phone, jumped in his car and left. He pulled up in front of the Safra Hebrew Academy. Casey was already there. Blood was on the pavement. A team of cleaners was already on the scene, mopping it up.

Casey greeted Chuck, a giant smile beaming from his face. "You saved a lot of lives today, Chuck. The blood belongs to that neo-Nazi scumbag Stenner you identified. He's in custody. No kids were hurt. How did you know, did you flash?"

"Not exactly. I didn't know something was going to happen. It was just intuition. Stenner's Facebook messages were filled with bile against Jews, threatening violence, and three weeks ago, he bought a gun."

"Why this place?" Casey asked.

"This school is named for the Safra banking family. Stenner's mother had a bad experience with a Safra bank about four years ago. From what I can tell, the bank didn't do anything wrong, but Stenner bore a grudge. It made sense that, if he was going to target someplace Jewish, he'd pick this school."

"Why today?" Casey asked

"He posted on Facebook a few days ago that he was getting the Fuhrer a gift. Today is Hitler's birthday." Chuck answered.

Just then, the bell sounded. Dozens of children began flooding out of the school, celebrating the end of the school day. Children saved by Chuck. Chuck looked at them, as they ran. Some to busses, others towards the playground. And, for the first time in three years, Chuck smiled.

"I'm in, Casey. All the way."

* * *

**Author's note: **think you know where this story is going? You're probably wrong! I hope to update on roughly a weekly basis, and have the ending written, but may struggle on some of the middle portions. Feel free to offer suggestions.


	3. Introducing Abby Cooper

**Author's Note**: I still don't own Chuck, I'm not making money off this.

* * *

April 21, 2022 10:00 a.m. Pacific

Abby Cooper stood at the apex of the refurbished Castle below the Buy More, giddy with excitement. She was going to work with the famous Charles Carmichael, and the almost as famous John Casey! In the past 10 years, many of Team Intersect's exploits (though not the details) had been partially declassified. Their missions and achievements were now taught at the Farm. From lessons and stories, Abby learned about the legends who took down Fulcrum, crushed the Ring, and disarmed a nuclear bomb with fruit juice. And Abby lapped up every ounce of available information about them. Charles Carmichael, Sarah Walker, and John Casey were her heroes. Now, only three years after graduating the Farm, she was assigned to work with two of them. Why had fortune so favored her?

Casey and Chuck sat behind a conference table in Castle. A blank monitor stood before them. Soon enough, the pleasant image of General Diane Beckman appeared on screen. She was wearing a bright polo shirt, and appeared to be speaking from a den or living room.

"Agent Carmichael. I'm so happy to see you again. I must say that I was surprised to get Casey's and Ellie's call, and even more surprised to hear that you volunteered to download the Intersect again."

Chuck turned silently towards Casey, throwing him a confused expression. Casey looked down, and expunged a soft grunt.

"And how is that darling girl, Diana?" General Beckman asked.

Chuck amused himself at the mention of his daughter. The General always gushed about Diana. She thought that Chuck and Sarah named Diana after her. They didn't. She was named for . . . somebody else. But the General took such pride in the honor that neither Chuck nor Sarah had ever dissuaded the General from her delusion.

"Thank you General. To be honest, I'm surprised you're overseeing us. I heard you retired." Chuck responded.

"I'm semi-retired but still manage a few special projects from home, including this one." She replied, then continued: "In any event, I'm sure you have questions, and I'm here to answer them."

"How does the new Intersect work, is it just information? Or do I know kung fu again?" Chuck asked.

"You have some skills encoded. Languages mostly, some musical abilities, a few other random skills. A new feature is the capability to predict a target's behavior by running psych profiles. But nothing violent is encoded. After consulting with your sister, it was determined that it would be too risky to give you the full set of abilities you used to have."

"Risky, how?" Chuck asked.

"For the most part, risky to me. Ellie threatened to kill me if we sent you on missions that would place you in danger. And she was worried that encoding those skills would encourage both me and you to take, quote, 'stupid gambles,' with your safety."

"Anything else?"

"There's also the matter of your physical conditioning, or lack thereof. All the martial arts skills in the world won't help if you have the upper body strength of an invalid." General Beckman replied.

"Sitting in bed for three years feeling sorry for yourself made you weak, Bartowski." Casey interjected.

"Fair enough." Chuck replied.

"That said, reading dallies, attending events to identify persons of interest, hacking software, piecing together clues from different intelligence sources. . . . We still need those kinds of skills, Chuck. And we're happy to have the team back together. . ." General Beckman paused, then continued, "well, most of the team. I'm sorry, Chuck. I loved her too."

"Thank you, that means a lot. One more question. . . my status, what am I?" Chuck asked.

"Effective this morning, you've been reinstated as a special consultant to the CIA, on loan to the NSA within the United States. As before, the terms of your consultancy will entitle you carry a badge and identify yourself as Special Agent Charles Carmichael to the extent necessary. I won't bore you with the remaining details. You can consult your contract. Is that all?" General Beckman replied.

"For now, yes." Chuck answered.

"Your new team member will be arriving soon. We haven't read her in yet on the Intersect, that still has the highest levels of classification. She only knows what we teach on the Farm: that Charles Carmichael and his team were the greatest spies who ever lived. I'll leave it to your discretion when and how to share information with her about the Intersect."

Right on cue, the doors to Castle opened. A slim, leggy brunette descended the stairs. She stood about 5'9. Her form fitting black skirt cut off just above the knee. A black suit jacket enveloped a bright blue top. Her skin was slightly olive, reflecting partial Mediterranean or near-Eastern descent. Her eyes were green. It was a striking combination. Age-wise, she appeared to be in her early-30s, but her sheer attractiveness and olive skin made her look younger.

"Everyone, I would like you to meet Abby Cooper." General Beckman announced.

Abby's face flushed. She was starstruck. Her eyes gaped with pure awe at the sight of the living marvels. She was also surprised at the physique of Charles Carmichael. In person, he was far more handsome than in the photographs or videos she had seen. But he was both leaner and scrawnier than she imagined. He looked like he had barely eaten for weeks, and not exercised for far longer. And his face was sadder. So much sadder.

Chuck was taken aback, and not in a good way. "Casey, I need to speak with you privately."

The two departed the conference room, and closed themselves behind one of Castle's holding cells. Safely out of Abby's earshot, Chuck spoke plainly: "Casey, I can't work with her. I can't replace Sarah with her, with anyone."

"She can't replace Sarah. She can only succeed her." Casey retorted.

"Can't it just be the two of us? Or what about a male agent? I will not be handled by another drop-dead gorgeous CIA agent. It's too soon." Chuck asked.

"No one is handling you, idiot. We need a female agent to do lady things with marks, and you know it. Besides, I'm nearing retirement and you're soft as pudding. We need young blood." Casey replied.

"Fine, but don't expect me to cover date her. Or even like her." Chuck answered.

"Why the hell would we need her to cover date you, except maybe on missions? Ellie, Awesome, Morgan, they all know you're a spy. We don't need to fool your friends or family. You need to work with her, not _shtup_ her. Deal with it. Sarah's not going to be jealous from beyond the grave." Casey responded.

Chuck gave a look somewhere between deep thought and flashing.

"What the hell was that?" Casey asked.

"I attempted to use the Intersect's psych profile skill on myself, to see if I could work with her." Chuck replied.

"And?"

Chuck raised his eyebrows and turned around. He didn't answer the question. Together with Casey, he returned to meet Abby.

"Abby, my apologies. It's a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Chuck."

Abby batted her eyes: "It's an honor. This isn't very agenty, but, I'm kind of still a new agent. And you both are my heroes."

Casey stopped her: "Be careful kid. You know what they say about heroes. They disappoint you."

With that, General Beckman chimed in, "Now that introductions are out of the way, class dismissed. We'll reconvene soon with a game plan."

"General, can I speak with you privately for a moment? I have a few special requests – nothing that would impact the team." Chuck asked.

"Within reason, Agent Carmichael. What do you want?"

Chuck motioned for Casey and Abby to leave, and they abided. Once they were out of earshot, Chuck spoke.

"A couple of things. First, I'd like you to authorize releasing to me all information and files pertaining to Sarah Walker-Bartowski, and all information and files on my team since its inception 15 years ago – I mean everything - emails, mission reports, surveillance, the whole thing. Yes, that includes the surveillance video and audio from my house with Sarah, after we left the Agency."

"Chuck, I don't know what you're talking about, I would never. . ." General Beckman feigned in response.

"You did, and we knew about it. We didn't say anything because we knew it was for our protection, and because we knew you'd do it anyway over our objection. . ."

Shrugging it off, General Beckman said "Fine, but why?"

"There's a little side project I'm working on, I'll brief you if and when I have something. Besides, Steven barely has any memory of Sarah. Diana has none at all. Maybe I can find some nuggets in the surveillance that can help them . . . know her." Chuck replied.

"Alright, anything else?"

"Yes, I'll need a copy of the source code for this version of the Intersect."

"Why do you want that?" General Beckman asked.

"Every version of the intersect has needed a governor. I'm going to create one."

* * *

April 21, 2022 2:30 p.m. Pacific

Morgan approached Chuck at the Buy More. "Chuck, I need you to train a new Nerd Herder."

Chuck turned around. Standing before him, dressed in a tight Nerd Herder's outfit, was a leggy, 5'9 brunette with olive-ish skin and green eyes.

"Hi, I'm Abby," she said.

* * *

April 21, 2022 8:30 p.m. Pacific

Abby lounged on the couch of her apartment, decompressing from the day's events. A glass of hard cider rested in her left hand. On her large plasma screen was a trashy telenovela. Just then, her program cut-out, replaced by the stern grin of General Diane Beckman.

"Abby, I hope I'm not interrupting." General Beckman asked indifferently.

"Um, no. . . what is it?" Abby replied.

General Beckman spoke again: "You're probably wondering why you got this assignment, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm still newish. Just three years off the farm. . ."

"You came to the Agency pretty late in life, right? From your file, it seems that you have a Master's in Psychology and practiced as a family therapist for four years, correct?"

"That's correct, General."

"Keep this between us, but Agent Carmichael needs a therapist. The man is broken. The love of his life died three years ago, and he hasn't begun to move on. He's a walking disaster to everyone around him. That's why he dropped off the face of the Earth. And that's why you're here. This may seem like an odd request to make of a junior agent but . . . I need you to handle Charles Carmichael."

Abby's mouth gaped wide open. She could muster only two words, softly: "Understood, General."

* * *

**Author's Note: Any thoughts on where this story is going? You are probably wrong. . . some twists await. **


	4. Every Lie Incorporates Some Truth

**A/N: I don't own Chuck or any of these characters, I'm not making any money off this.**

* * *

_"Chuck, I'm thinking. . . You named the last one, after your father. Since we're having a girl this time, I'd really like to name her." Sarah asked, snuggling up to Chuck on their bed. _

_"Of course, honey. . . . What name were you thinking?"_

_"Diana."_

_"Why?"_

_Sarah blushed. Instinctively, she put her hands to her face. They had been married over five years. "My gosh. . . I never told you. Diana is my real name. Diana Pulaski."_

_"But what about Sam?"_

_Sarah laughed uncontrollably. Soon, she found herself bundled into a little ball, trying to hold back a mix of laughter and embarrassment. Lightly slapping her husband's leg, she composed herself enough to mutter a few words through her laughter: "Chuck, Sam was my dog's name when I was a little girl. Do you really think I would have told him my real name?" _

_"Um, kinda, yeah. . . You didn't say anything at the time."_

_"We were . . . in a dark place then. Then it didn't matter, then you never brought it up. With 'Sam,' I was trying to fake something real, with him. To feel something. But I could only muster another lie."_

_"Should I call you Diana now?"_

_"No, I've been Sarah for so long. . . far longer than I ever was Diana. But Diana is who I was. Diana was real. I want real for our daughter. I real mother, a real father."_

_Chuck chuckled. His own personal Wonder Woman was really named Diana. And his children? Steve and Diana. The comic book gods were smiling upon him. He pulled his wife close, and wrapped her arms around his torso. "Diana sounds like a wonderful name. I can't wait to meet her."_

* * *

**May 8, 2022, 8:00 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck stumbled into awake-hood. He wanted to back to sleep. Sleep was his time with Sarah. Every night booked a solid eight hours with his beloved. Often, he stayed with her for ten or eleven hours. Sleep was Chuck's happy time. His only time without the crushing loneliness that plagued his waking hours. But this Sunday morning, at 8:00 a.m., a precious little five-year old blond girl stumbled into his room, decked out in the flower girl dress she wore to the wedding of Awesome's cousin three months before.

"Daddy, do I look pretty?" she asked.

His eyes lifted from their closed position, and focused on the little girl. His Diana. His little Sarah. "Yes, Princess. But do you know what would make you even prettier?"

"What?" she asked.

"Take the paci out of your mouth." Chuck replied, pointing to the pink pacifier in his daughter's mouth. He had been trying to get her to kick the habit, she was much too old to use one. Well, to be honest, Ellie had been trying to get her to kick the habit. Chuck had mostly sat back and done nothing. But he at least made an effort this morning. That was a start.

"I have a better idea!" responded Diana Bartowski.

"What's your idea, Princess?"

"Jewelry. Jewelry would make me prettier," she answered, deadpanned.

Chuck smiled, and laughed a little to himself. His second smile in three years, and his first laugh. Maybe Ellie was right that the Intersect was good for him. . . that this life was good for him.

"No Princess. You're very pretty no matter what you wear."

"Oh," she replied. "Can I wear jewelry anyway? Mommy always wore jewelry in her pictures."

"Princess, your mom was the second-prettiest woman I ever knew. But you know what made her so pretty?"

"What?"

"It was her heart, her kindness, her strength, her devotion to all of us. Not the shiny rocks she wore around her neck. Do you understand?"

"Uh huh. I think so." Diana replied, lying. No five-year old understands concepts like that. "Daddy, if Mommy was the second-prettiest woman you ever met, who was the prettiest?" Diana asked.

"I'm looking right at her now, Princess." Chuck replied.

Diana turned her head to the left, then to the right, then twirled around. Not seeing Ellie, or anyone else, she finally got a hint. Soon, a glowing smile replaced the pacifier in her mouth. Just then, Chuck's phone rang.

"Chuck. It's Casey. Mission. Castle. Beckman. Now."

"On my way." Chuck answered. He kissed Diana on the top of her head, and went to wake up Ellie. Ellie grumbled a bit upon awaking. She didn't enjoy Chuck leaving early on a Sunday. But at least he was doing something. And, before the Intersect, it's not like he paid much attention to his children anyway. Ellie wouldn't let the perfect be the enemy of the good. She gave Chuck a quick hug, and then got out of bed to start making her four children breakfast. . .

* * *

**May 8, 2022, 8:30 a.m. Castle**

Chuck entered Castle down the steps. Abby, Casey, and Morgan were already there, with General Beckman on the screen.

"Chuck, thank you for joining us. I apologize for the last-minute summons, particularly this early on a Sunday, but the information just crossed my desk and it's time sensitive. We just got word that Henry Rickman, the software billionaire, will be hosting a charitable golf outing this afternoon for software developers and investors at the Goldenview Country Club. Rickman is clean, as far as we know. But a confidential source has informed us that agents of El Jefe, the Mexican cartel, may be attending the outing."

"Drug kingpins attending a nerd convention, why?" Casey asked.

"We believe they are looking for legitimate businesses to invest in, as a means of laundering their money. Turns out they've focused on computer software." General Beckman answered.

"I'm with Casey, what the hell? Why?" Chuck inquired.

"It's quite ingenious, really, which is why it took us to long to catch on. Chuck, as you know, once a software program is finished, making additional copies of the program costs pennies. But, depending on the program, the developer can sell or license each of those copies for $50, $100, $200 a piece. Copies of sophisticated programs are sometimes licensed for thousands of dollars a pop. What El Jefe has been doing is snapping up controlling interests in new programs, or acquiring the rights entirely, and then laundering money by having their affiliates and members 'purchase' licenses to the programs. $10 million in drug money, used to purchase software licenses, magically becomes $7-8 million in legal, lawful software profits. And if they acquire a good program, the investment can be profitable on its own."

"Wow, that's pretty cool, you know, for bad guys." Chuck replied, a genuine look of awe and amazement plastered on his face. Morgan nodded his head. Casey growled.

"In any event, the outing will be filled with prime targets for their efforts." General Beckman answered.

"And what would you like us to do?" Chuck asked.

"You and Abby will attend as a couple, under the cover names Charles Carmichael and Abby Coleman. Casey will attend as staff. Morgan will monitor from Castle and supply information. Flash on anyone you see, Chuck, and try to get bugs near important conversations. Also try to strike up conversations with any angel investors. Say that you're developing a new program, and are looking for funding sources. That may help us identify who's representing El Jefe."

Abby cracked a smile, and looked upward at Chuck.

Chuck shook his head. "That's a terrible plan, General."

"Care to explain, Agent Carmichael?" General Beckman asked.

"Sarah and I were married for eight years, and together for over a year before then. We ran a cybersecurity company, whether as a CIA front or otherwise, for most of that time. We attended a number of these kinds of gatherings, under our real identities. There are bound to be a number of people there who know me, the real me. I should go as Chuck Bartowski."

When Chuck mentioned the word "Bartowski," Abby let out a little gasp. She didn't know his real name. Chuck continued, "If this is strictly recon, there should be little risk to myself or Abby for me to go as myself."

"You make a good point. Very well, Chuck Bartowski and Abby will go as a couple. . ." General Beckman said.

Chuck cut her off. "General, you miss my point. The people who know me know that Chuck Bartowski is still hopelessly in love with his dead wife, is completely incapable of intimacy with anyone else, and is working at a Buy More. He wouldn't be dating, and certainly wouldn't be dating someone who looks like well. . . you know."

Abby's eyebrows picked up a bit at Chuck's last comment. _'So he does find me attractive?' _ she thought. Then she grasped Chuck's tone of voice. It was monotone, devoid of tension or embarrassment. Chuck was simply conveying objective facts: men found her sexually attractive, and women who looked like her usually didn't date depressed widowers who fix computers. He could have easily been stating that Seattle is rainy.

"You make another good point, Agent _Bartowski_. What do you suggest?" Genera Beckman inquired.

"I'll go with Abby and introduce her as something else . . . a second cousin, an old friend of Sarah's, whatever. We both mingle as single, unattached guests. With Abby single, it may be easier for her to, um, attract attention . . . and potentially overhear something incriminating." Chuck explained.

"It's a good plan, General." Casey added, giving Chuck a sly look.

"Ok. You have my blessing. Move out." General Beckman replied. Abby and Morgan left the room. Casey stayed behind, as Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. As Chuck got up to leave, Casey grabbed him softly by the arm.

"You're a good liar Bartowksi, but you're not fooling me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your plan. . . it wasn't about the mission goals. You've been a shut-in. You haven't seen any of these people for months, probably years. None of them would bat an eye about Chuck Bartowski, multi-millionaire, finally getting back in the game by diddling a piece of eye candy. You just don't want to act 'friendly' with another woman." Casey said.

Chuck sighed, then responded, "then why did you support me?"

"Because it won't do any good for you to breakdown this afternoon, start crying about cheating on a corpse, and screw the pooch. If you're not ready, I'll support you. For now. But get in the game, Bartowski."

Chuck blushed. Casey was right. He tried to justify his plan to himself. But, in truth, he just wanted to avoid _acting _like a couple with anyone, even someone like Abby. The mere thought of holding hands with her, much less anything else, made him ill. At least he'd pushed off that day of reckoning, for a little while. . .

* * *

**A/N: p.s. - Any thoughts on where this story is going next? I'd love to hear from you. . . p.s., I like reviews. **


	5. Return of the Jeffi

**A/N****: After a pretty heavy introduction, the next few chapters will purposefully be a little "lighter" in tone. . . **

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Chuck or any of these characters. **

* * *

**May 8, 2022, 12:30 p.m. Goldenview Country Club**

Chuck and Abby stood at the edge of a large grass sea. About a football field away, a large open-air tent sprouted before the green. Roughly fifty people mulled about it. Chuck took a deep breath.

"Everything ok, Chuck?"

"Yeah, it's just been awhile since I had to do the whole people mingling thing. I mean, a couple of family functions. But I mostly just get a drink and stand by the wall."

"You can do it, I'm here," Abby responded, giving his hand a small squeeze. Chuck flinched at her touch.

"Me too buddy. . . I'll talk you through it. And, if you get bored, we can just talk Star Wars," chimed in Morgan, through Chuck's earpiece. With that, Chuck and Abby made their leisurely walk to the outing.

Entering the tent, Chuck scanned for targets of interest. "No flashes. Morgan, do you see anything?"

"No one. Wait, Chuck, bogie at your six o'clock . . ."

Chuck turned hurriedly, and came face-to-face with an old acquaintance, Bill Sequoia. Bill was the Chief Technology Officer of a medium sized financial services firm. He had periodically hired Carmichael Industries to run cybersecurity checks on his firm's systems. He also possessed the personality of a paint can.

"Sorry dude, tried to warn you. . ." Morgan said softly.

"Chuck!" Bill called out, extending his hand for a big handshake. "It's great to finally see you out-and-about. It's been what, four years? I was very sorry to hear about Sarah? How are you coping?"

"Fine, I'm doing ok." Chuck replied.

"Judging by your companion, I'd say you're doing more than ok." Bill answered.

Chuck expunged a tiny cover laugh. "Bill, it's not what you think. We're not together. This is Abby Coleman. She's an old friend of Sarah's who is visiting LA for a few days. I'm showing her around."

"And how did you know the lovely Ms. Bartowski?" Bill asked.

"Gosh, this is kinda embarrassing. . . .," Abby batted her eyes and gave off a cover blush, "When Sarah was in college, she used to, um, babysit me."

"Sarah Bartowski was your baby sitter?" Bill asked, somewhat incredulously.

"Yeah, but more than that. We stayed in touch over the years. She was kind of a mentor to me, you know? So, when I came to L.A., I wanted to stop in and see her kids, and Chuck decided to show me around."

Chuck gave off a small smile. Abby had fleshed out her cover with him on the way over. The babysitter thing was her idea. It was damn creative: simple and unimpeachable.

"Well, that's lovely," Bill said. "Chuck, what brings you out here today?"

"The last few months, I've finally gotten off my ass and started writing code again. I've got a program in the works, and thought I'd put out feelers for funding."

"That's nice to hear, Chuck. What does your program do?"

"Kind of hard to explain. I guess you could say that it's a new way to analyze and model large quantities of data." Chuck answered.

"Do you have anything to show me? I'm really here in a personal capacity, as an investor."

"No, nothing yet. . . it's too early. But I'll keep you in mind."

Bill walked away. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. He went to get a drink from Casey, who was tending bar. Over the next ninety minutes, Chuck sat nursing his martini while the party proceeded around him. Even before Sarah died, he had little interest in networking. It was like speed dating for business people, but with even greater shallowness and less honesty. And, without Sarah there to drag him through it, he didn't have the strength. Abby though. . . Chuck was impressed with how she worked a room. Though his rationale to General Beckman for the "non-couple cover" wasn't entirely honest, it turned out to be the right call: a "single" Abby moved gracefully from person-to-person, as lonely computer programmers and investors each took their best shot at her. Chuck watched from his stool and scanned for flashes, without luck. Pretty soon, Morgan was going on in his earpiece about how Lucas originally envisioned Jar Jar as a dark side counterpart to Yoda, while Chuck maintained his visual watch on the crowd and pretended to pay attention. When Chuck briefly looked down to take another sip from his drink, a familiar voiced called down to him.

"Chuck. Wow. Long time, man."

Chuck looked up. Standing before him, dressed in a red pinstripe searsucker suit, with a blue-striped white shirt, pink bow-tie, and black, Buddy Holly spectacles, was Jeffrey Barnes.

"Jeff?" Chuck answered, somewhat in shock. "Jeff Barnes? What are you doing here?"

"Business, believe it or not. I'm seeking financing for a program that I'm writing."

"You . . . write code now?"

"Yeah," Jeff responded.

Chuck looked a little stunned. Sure, after Jeff sobered up he revealed himself to be surprisingly intelligent. But a programmer?

"So, what does your program do?," Chuck said, briefly grimacing in terror after realizing that he used Bill Sequoia's exact words. Had he become lead paint Chuck, he wondered to himself?

"It reads facial expressions and other non-verbal cues in live video, in order to assess emotions." Jeff answered, completely seriously.

"What the. . . how the heck did you get a computer program to do that? And why the heck would you even think of that?" Chuck asked.

"For example, right now you're displaying a mix of amazement and befuddlement." Jeff said, a smile growing on his face.

"Um. . . other than the obvious, how did you figure that out?"

"My glasses. It feeds me real time information from the program."

Amazement and befuddlement no longer cut it. Chuck was in utter disbelief. "Um. . . wow. When did you become so. . ."

"Productive?" Jeff said, jumping in to finish Chuck's sentence. Jeff continued, "Well, after Jeffster broke up, and our legions of adorning fans and groupies dispersed. . . "

"Groupies? Jeffster had groupies?" Chuck interjected.

"It was the most glorious four years of my life, Chuck. In any event, after it all ended, I realized that I was missing something important in my life, to fill the emptiness. At first, I thought I might be beer. But after I got sober, again, I realized I was missing something deeper, more significant."

"Which was?," Chuck responded, as he took another long gulp from his martini.

"Getting laid regularly. I really missed the groupies."

Choking up in shock, Chuck spritzed his martini from his mouth in all directions.

"Here, Chuck, try it out. It lets me assess, almost immediately, which lasses are interested in me, and who isn't worth my time." Jeff said, removing his glasses and handing them to Chuck, who put them on.

Suddenly, Chuck was flooded with huge amounts of information about each person in his field of view, overlaid on a screen in front of him. For instance, when Chuck turned towards Jeff, the words _"proud," "happy," _and_ "lonely"_ flouted off his body, captured in little comic book-style text bubbles.

Just then, Abby walked up to them, "Chuck, are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Jeff jumped in, "Chuck, nice going! Trading Sarah in for a younger model? Maybe something that comes in Greek? Or perhaps Lebanese?"

Chuck looked up at Jeff, and noticed that the glasses now defined Jeff's expression as _"lecherous."_ Turning towards Abby, he saw emotion bubbles of_ "revulsion"_ and _"confusion"_ flouting off her as she stared at Jeffrey Barnes.

"Sarah died, Jeff. A few years ago," Chuck answered. As he spoke, he noticed Jeff's expression change, and his emotion bubbles immediately followed suit. His bubbles now read:_ "embarrassment"_ and _"apologetic."_ Chuck did a double-take, then continued, "This is Abby, an old friend of Sarah's. I'm just showing her around LA for a few days."

Chuck turned to Abby who, in turn, stole a glance at Chuck. The glasses updated quickly. As her eyes caught Chuck's, he observed the following words flash as emotion bubbles around her: _"attraction," "idolization," "infatuation."_ Suddenly, little cartoon volcanoes appeared above Abby's hair, erupting with fury. From the midst of the volcanoes, dancing penises emerged, each of which sprang quickly into an excited pose.

Jeff noticed Chuck's baffled expression, and provided some context: "Ah. . . You must have discovered the animations. I'm particularly proud of them. Nice to meet you, Sarah's 'friend.'"

Jeff gave Abby a dirty look, then turned to Chuck. Emotion bubbles reading _"admiration"_ and _"envy"_ flouted off Jeff. Abby stood there, dumbfounded.

Chuck spoke: "Jeff, this is amazing. Completely and utterly gross, but amazing. Can I speak with you quietly, over here?"

Once out of everyone's earshot, Chuck whispered to Jeff. "Jeff, you remember my old employer, right? My _real _old employer? This might be something that they'd be interested in."

"Chuck, why would the CIA need to score poon?"

"Jeff, has it ever occurred to you that you may have developed something that could do a lot more than help you sleep with women?"

"Of course. I'm hoping I developed something that will make me rich, and help me sleep with women. You should have seen the kind of money those guys over there were offering me. . ." Jeff turned his direction towards three men dressed in white linen suits. Chuck could swear he had seen them earlier at the party, without a flash. But this time, upon Jeff's prompting, images of guns, dead bodies, cocaine, and cash-stuffed duffel bags sped through Chuck's mind. Once the flash ended, Chuck grabbed Jeff and hugged him, wrapping him in his arms. Placing his mouth an inch from Jeff's ear, Chuck whispered: "Jeff, Jeff, buddy. . . those are bad guys. Stay clear of them."

Jeff brushed him off, and responded "All I know is that they are from Heritage Investments, and that that they've offered me mountains of cash for my program. . . can you beat that?"

"Let us try, Jeff. Give me your card, I'll be in touch. For your own sake, Jeff, don't do anything without speaking to me first, ok buddy?"

Jeff nodded, handed Chuck a business card, and then walked away.

Chuck's disbelief remained. He was happy for Jeff, genuinely. But Jeff's productivity shined a light on his own shortcomings. If Jeffrey Barnes could come up with a program this brilliant, what could Chuck Bartowski accomplish once he stopped feeling sorry for himself? Chuck realized he didn't know. But he would endeavor to find out.

Aside from that, Chuck felt a small sense of worry. He hadn't spoken to Jeff in over eight years, since he and Sarah had caught a Jeffster show while on a mission in Munich. But Jeff used to be a friend, kind of. He felt he owed it to Jeff to do something, here, to prevent him from getting mixed up in this.

Morgan's Spidey-sense began tingling. "Chuck. . . I know what you're thinking. Don't."

"Chuck?" Abby asked, a look of concern growing on her face.

"He's thinking that General Beckman will demand that we recruit Jeff as an asset, to acquire more information about El Jefe and their funding operations," Morgan explained.

Chuck nodded, and jumped in, "And I can stop it. I can save him. I can pitch my program to the 'Heritage' people, set up a meet, and use them to get account information, business plans, that kind of stuff."

"The program that doesn't exist?" Abby asked

Chuck responded with an ambiguous silent expression, before continuing: "It's not the program, it's the marketing. I can do this."

"But you won't, you can't," Morgan pleaded, "We're recon only today. You're here as yourself, as Chuck Bartowski. You do this, you put your entire family in jeopardy."

"I know. I can't save everybody," Chuck responded, his defeated tone leaving unvoiced the following thought_ 'At least not today.'_

* * *

**May 8, 2022, 6 p.m. Castle**

General Diane Beckman's face glared through Castle's monitors.

"Are you telling me that Jeffrey Barnes, the same man who used to eat urinal cakes, invented a program that can reliably identify and convey information about human emotions?"

"Yes, General. I can truthfully say that no one is more surprised than me." Chuck replied.

"And you know this how, Agent Carmichael?"

"I tried it on. . . Based on what I saw, it works. The information it conveyed appeared to be accurate, if occasionally pornographic," Chuck answered, with his response greeted by a simultaneous Casey grunt. Abby just looked confused.

"Excuse me?" General Beckman blasted.

"Remember, he's still Jeff Barnes."

General Beckman acknowledged Chuck's point, and continued: "Whatever. We need that program. It could be invaluable to intelligence gathering. But just as importantly, we need to exploit Jeff's connections to El Jefe."

"In other words . . ." Chuck jumped in, while General Beckman now finishing his sentence: "Correct, Chuck. As of this moment, you need consider Jeffrey Barnes to be your asset."

* * *

**A/N****: I expect to be updating weekly for the next few weeks. I've got the entire arc mapped out, and the last chapters are written, but am open to ideas for "spy stories" within this framework. **


	6. Debts to be repaid, debts to be incurred

**A/N: I still don't own Chuck, or any of these characters. I'm still not making money from this. I still like reviews.**

* * *

**May 8, 2022 6:15 p.m., Castle**

General Beckman ended the transmission, and Castle's monitor shut off.

The team sat around the conference table. Chuck opened his mouth to speak, but Casey beat him to the punch.

"No harm is coming on any of the three hairs left on that moron's head." Casey declared, firmly.

Chuck and Morgan nodded in agreement. Abby looked a little perplexed, particularly at Casey's role in taking charge of Jeff's defense. She jumped in, "Um. . . why? I've read your profiles. I get Chuck's thing for protecting civilians, and Morgan's penchant for being the hero. But you? This Barnes guy is more than a little creepy. Protect him, sure, if we can. . . . But at the cost of the mission?"

"Well, he's a creep. And a pervert. But that creepy pervert is also a hero. Ten years ago, he saved my daughter's life. Morgan's too." Casey answered.

"Then, a few weeks later, at great risk to his own life, he helped Chuck defuse a bomb and save a concert hall full of people. . . including General Beckman." Morgan added.

"That guy helped defuse a bomb?" Abby asked, somewhat incredulously.

"In a manner of speaking. He risked his life to buy me the time I needed." Chuck clarified.

"None of this was in any of the mission reports I reviewed."

Chuck tried to explain, "It was chaos back then. We were civilians. Sarah and I were going through a personal crisis. Then, shortly thereafter, Casey left the team for a few months. Reports didn't get written, things didn't get documented."

"So this is personal?" Abby asked.

Casey continued, "Call it what you want. I owe him one. The General owes him one, although she might not acknowledge it. The country owes him one. I'm not going to defend his attitude towards women or his ethnic comments, but on the cosmic balance scales, he's one of the good guys. Besides," Casey grunted and looked at Chuck, "the non-bearded moron sitting next to you once reminded me of something . . . we're the good guys too. Computer nerds don't deserve bullets in the brain, whether from the bad guys or otherwise, just for being brilliant."

"With that settled, how do we accomplish our three competing objectives? Ideas?" Casey asked.

"Three?" Abby asked back. Chuck and Morgan concurred with Abby's confusion, and both shot Casey a slightly perplexed look.

"We need to secure Jeff's program for intelligence purposes. But we also need to have Jeff sell or license his program to Heritage, in order to trace El Jefe's money-laundering operations. So how do we keep the program for ourselves, while letting El Jefe have it too?" Casey asked.

"And the third objective?" Abby inquired.

"It's the most important one: keeping that moron safe, both from El Jefe . . . and from the people above us."

Chuck looked deep in thought. Then he spoke: "Jeff's perverted ramblings may have given us the answer to the first two goals. Who needs a device that can transmit real-time data on human emotions? We do, you know, spies, for spy-stuff. Maybe the police for interrogation, some psych grad students for research. That's about it. Where's the real market for those glasses?"

"It's helping lonely guys pick up women." Morgan answered.

"Exactly. So let's split the program. Give us the meat, and let El Jefe take the bone. That solves the first two issues." Chuck said, with Morgan giggling at the mention of the word "bone."

"heh heh . . . Chuck said bone." Morgan added. Casey grunted, then interjected "You're over 40, grow up."

Turning towards Chuck, Casey added: "And the third objective? How do we get Jeff to help us, while keeping him safe?"

Chuck shot Casey a half-smile, then spoke: "It's been 10 years but, deep down, it's still the same Jeff. Older, maybe beaten down a bit with his dream life falling apart, but still the same guy. He put in himself in danger to save people back then. Maybe we just need to appeal to his basic decency. Give him the chance to be a hero once again. Not every asset needs to be threatened, extorted, or seduced. Some just want to help."

Morgan jumped in, looking at Chuck, "Remind you of anyone?" Chuck shot him back a look, but didn't answer.

"Ok, fine. So that's how we get him to help. How do we keep him safe?" Casey asked.

"It's time to ask for a favor, from an old friend," Chuck responded.

* * *

**May 9, 2022 9:30 a.m. Drug Enforcement Agency, San Diego Division. Office of Division Director Carina Miller. **

Carina Miller rushed to her desk. It had been a hectic night and a worse morning. Shelly, her two-year old daughter, had thrown up three times during the night from some random stomach bug, an illness that was also keeping her out of daycare today. Then her baby sitter cancelled on her, which left her scrambling to find a last-minute replacement. But made it to work she did, to the desk job she never thought she'd want.

Four months after her Sarah's death, Carina found herself pregnant. From whom, she had no idea. It could have been one of half-a-dozen marks and one-night stands. _'Could be Chuck's little trollish friend Martin,_' Carina sometimes thought to herself with a shudder. Nor did it happen on purpose: three separate methods of birth control failed her simultaneously. But pregnant she was, at age 42. And Carina figured, this was her probably her last chance. Sometimes, she blamed or credited Sarah, depending on her mood. Maybe it was her grief over Sarah's death that pressed her to want something more, and which stopped her from simply taking care of the problem the way she had four times before. Or maybe it was just time. At her age, seduction and deep uncover missions were becoming fewer and far between. It would only get worse as she approached her mid-40s and beyond. If she wanted to stay in the game, she needed to stop doing and start directing. A short while after the proverbial rabbit died, the DEA posted an opening for the position of Division Director in San Diego. Carina applied for the posting and, to her surprise, got the job. So instead of nightclubs, gun fights, and seductions, her life now revolved around her daughter and her desk. . .

"Any messages, Megan?" Carina asked her secretary.

"One, first thing this morning, from a Charles Carmichael. The number is on your desk."

Carina grinned. Chuck's code name. But why? Was Chuck back in the game? Heck, had Chuck finally crawled himself out of Sarah's grave? She dialed the number.

"Chuckles, it's Carina. I'm surprised to get your call. Business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"Awe, sorry to hear that. What's up?"

"I'm _consulting_ again for some mutual friends, and we got involved in something related to El Jefe. We want to read you in."

"Why wasn't I called at the start?" Carina asked somewhat angrily. Chuck sighed. Carina had a point. If he had been on his game, he might have asked General Beckman that same question yesterday morning. Why was the NSA going after a Mexican drug cartel? Isn't this DEA or FBI territory?

"It's a good question. It's also above my pay grade. Agency politics. We just followed orders."

"Since when do you follow orders? Well, there's a first time for everything . . . So how can I help now?"

"How deep are your connections in El Jefe? We're looking into suspicious purchases of . . . computer programs."

"Why didn't you just say so? Agency politics my ass." Carina responded.

Chuck hadn't thought of it. But made sense. The higher-ups bypassed the usual pecking order and gave Team Bartowski this mission because of him, his background. Made about as much sense as anything.

"Carina, come on. I'll owe you one."

"Yes, we have connections. What do you need my people do?" she asked.

* * *

**May 9, 2012, 4:00 p.m. Offices of Fielding Financial Planning (the former Orange Orange) **

"Jeff, thanks for meeting me here," Chuck said, greeting his old acquaintance.

Jeff nodded, and answered back, "Chuck, I'm sorry again for what I said about Sarah, and her friend . . . I didn't know."

"It's ok. I've heard worse"

Jeff looked around the place. It was a dingy office. No receptionist at the front desk, which was stationed roughly where the toppings used to be. Two small empty offices were visible to the left, in the back. One of the ceiling lights was out, the other was flickering. Paint chips peeled from the walls.

"Chuck, since when do you do financial planning? Do you work here? And didn't this use to be a yogurt place?"

"I'm working at the Buy More, sort of. This is just space we're using right now to, you know, meet people." Chuck answered.

Jeff had raised a good point. Team Bartowski had only been up-and-running a few weeks, but it needed a better above-ground cover to meet civilians than empty offices. It was something to talk to Casey about.

"So why am I here, Chuck?"

"Jeff, how much did Heritage Investments offer you for your program?"

"$6 million, up-front. For a 90% stake. They'll let me keep a 10% residual on sales."

"What would it take to strip down the program? To remove most of the emotion sensing, and just keep the parts that help with picking up women?"

"It could be done. I don't know. A few weeks of coding. Maybe a few months. Why?"

"I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse," Chuck said, putting on his best Pacino impression.

Jeff looked a little taken aback. _'Maybe I should have brought my glasses_' he thought. Chuck sensed the confusion and clarified, "Just kidding, I'm going to make you an offer you shouldn't refuse. You want to walk out that door, you can."

"I'm still here."

"Sell us the complete program. We'll pay the same $6 million that Heritage offered you, and we'll let you sell or license a stripped-down version to Heritage, but only to Heritage."

"There's got to be a catch, right?"

"There is. . . I told you that some bad people were behind Heritage. That's true. It's why we're interested in you doing business with them. We're going to need access, without a warrant, to sales records, bank transfer records, that kind of thing. At some point, you might also need to testify."

"Won't all that put me at risk?" Jeff asked.

"It might. We're taking steps to reduce that risk. But this is your choice Jeff, I won't lie to you. When this is all done, you might wind up in witness protection, or protective custody. Help or don't help us, you've created an exceptional program that will make you rich. But we can offer you something else."

Jeff: "A gorgeous CIA ninja as a cover girlfriend to protect me?"

Chuck looked blankly at him.

Jeff quelled the confusion: "A joke, Chuck. You got me at the word you didn't say, 'hero.' Where do I sign up?"

Chuck took some papers out of his desk, and placed them before Jeff.

Jeff looked them over, then posed a question: "Chuck, there's a problem. Heritage has already seen the whole program. What do I tell them about why I can't give it to them?"

Chuck looked him straight in the eye: "Tell them the truth. You sold it to the CIA, but we let you keep and re-sell the portion that helps with 'picking up chicks." If they want nothing to do with you, you're safe and $6 million richer. If they still want to do business with you, they won't suspect you because you've been straight with them."

Jeff asked a follow-up: "One more thing, that gorgeous CIA ninja cover girlfriend . . . Can I get one of those too?"

Chuck grinned: "Do you want one?"

* * *

**A/N: I'm trying to update weekly, but the next chapter probably won't be up for another two weeks. I pretty much get to write on weekends after the kids are asleep, but before me & the wife are . . . but we're away next weekend.**

**The next chapter should be . . . interesting. A bit of movement on Abby's handling, and the Chuck/Morgan relationship. **


	7. An Evening With Morgan

**A/N****: Still don't own Chuck, still like reviews. **

* * *

"_Morgan is more than just my best friend, he's my family. Before you got here, and long after you've gone, Morgan is my family." _

_Chuck to Sarah, during Chuck vs. The Best Friend_

* * *

**May 13, 2022, 6 p.m. Apartment of Abby Cooper**

General Beckman's face glared from Abby Cooper's television screen at the junior agent. "Report, Agent Cooper. What is your assessment of Agent Carmichael's performance to date?"

"He's not what I expected, General. . . He functions like an analyst, a good one. But not like an Agent. He couldn't socialize at a simple golf outing. He mostly sat in the corner, nursing a drink. And his 'flashes,' or whatever you call them, seem off. I spoke with the Heritage targets earlier in the afternoon for at least fifteen minutes. Their lead investor was, um, 'interested' in me. Agent Carmichael periodically observed us, without flashing. He only flashed when he learned that his old friend, Mr. Barnes, was potentially getting into bed with them. It was pure dumb luck that we salvaged the mission."

"Anything else to report, Agent Cooper?"

"Even as an analyst, I have not observed the kinds of astonishing deductive powers attributed to him on the Farm. His analyses of the daily reports have mostly been right, but he's acting on hunches or intuition, not hard facts."

"What is your recommendation?"

"There is no panacea, General. But, to start, we need to reconnect Agent Carmichael to the world, and get him mixing again in social situations."

"Are you suggesting a romantic overture?," General Beckman asked, her left eyebrow poignantly raising itself.

"No, not at this time. I, um, don't believe that would be welcomed," Abby responded, hesitantly, her face mildly blushing. Abby's blush immediately attracted the General's attention.

"Agent Cooper, I've been doing this a long time. I may not be wearing Mr. Barnes' glasses, but I notice things. Are you compromised with Agent Carmichael? He does have a track record with this sort of thing."

"May I speak freely, General?" Abby asked.

"Of course."

"No, General. I'm not compromised. To be sure, Agent Carmichael and, to a lesser extent, Colonel Casey, are legends at the Farm. In some respects, I've idolized them the way a little boy in Boston might look up to Tom Brady and Gronk. And, I must confess, he's attractive in sort of a sad, dopey way. But I'm not a teenage girl anymore. I know how to compartmentalize feelings such as admiration and attraction. They will not impact my judgment."

"I appreciate your candor. I only wish some of my previous agents had been so open. Well, if something romantic is off-the-table, what is your proposal for increasing Agent Carmichael's effectiveness?"

"Morgan Grimes," Abby responded, matter-of-factly.

"Explain," General Beckman looked at Abby sharply. The General tolerated the small bearded man, but generally considered him a nuisance despite his rather impressive array of successes.

"According to the files, he has been Agent Carmichael's best friend since childhood. It's also my understanding that their friendship cooled right around the time Agent Carmichael's wife died. It is my opinion that the distance between them contributed to Agent Carmichael's decline," Abby explained.

"Agent Cooper, what is the basis for that claim? We understood that Agent Carmichael has been working at the Buy More primarily to be around Mr. Grimes. I don't see evidence of a 'cooling' between them."

Abby responded: "I don't know the specifics. But, per my discussions with Mr. Grimes and Agent Carmichael's sister, Agent Carmichael and Mr. Grimes almost never see each other socially; not in the way they used to."

"And why do you believe that this 'cooling' contributed to Agent Carmichael's decline?," General Beckman asked, her vocal tone indicating that she was becoming somewhat impressed with Agent Cooper's analysis.

In response, Abby explained further: "Without Mr. Grimes, Agent Carmichael was left without an 'anchor' to support him. To be sure, his sister and brother-in-law went to extraordinary lengths to aid him practically, including moving in with him and assisting with child rearing. But Dr. Woodcomb's relationship with Agent Carmichael has always been more maternal, and more judgmental, than traditionally sisterly. Additionally, and for good reason, both of them wound up focusing the bulk of their energies on the welfare of Agent Carmichael's children and their own children, not on Agent Carmichael himself. Mr. Grimes, conversely, has always provided Agent Carmichael with unconditional, nonjudgmental acceptance. A form of platonic love, to the extent that term is still used. After his wife's passing, Agent Carmichael needed that level, that kind, of emotional support. Without it, he spiraled downward."

"Are you suggesting that Agent Carmichael can be fixed just by spending more time with Mr. Grimes?"

"Absolutely not, General. But it's a start."

"Thank you. Dismiss. . ." General Beckman started to say. But before the petite General could finish the word "dismissed," Abby cut her off.

"General, in the interests of full candor, why did you ask me to assess Agent Carmichael's performance? Surely Colonel Casey would be a better judge, having worked with him for so long." Abby inquired.

"Alright, full candor. Agent Casey is here because Agent Carmichael needs someone he can trust. Beyond your rather unique background, you are here because I need someone I can trust. As I alluded to earlier, Agent Carmichael has a history of compromising agents. He turned the CIA's top assassin and seductress into a love-sick school girl, then into a doting wife who quit the CIA for him. To the best of my knowledge, Colonel Casey is not romantically compromised with Agent Carmichael. But he is compromised nevertheless. And he has been almost since the day he began working with him. Within two years, he transformed from the NSA's most loyal agent into Agent Carmichael's loyal accomplice. Let me be clear: Colonel Casey is an excellent agent. But he cannot be trusted to put the country's needs before Agent Carmichael's. Can you be trusted with that task?" General Beckman asked.

"Yes, General." Abby replied, overcoming a big gulp of terror simply to mouth those words.

As General Beckman closed the transmission she felt pleased with herself for matching Agent Carmichael with the CIA's only junior agent/trained therapist.

**May 20, 2022: 9 p.m., Casa Bartowski/Woodcomb**

Chuck Bartowski sat at his home computer desk, fixated on the screen. As he typed furiously, line-after-line of computer code littered the screen. In the corner of the screen, old surveillance videos of Sarah Bartowski played. Periodically, Chuck paused his typing to peak at the surveillance footage, which at present depicted Sarah folding laundry on their bed. The video was dated June 3, 2016, nearly six years before. As the minutes stretched on, Chuck's eyes began darting back-and-forth between the code he was writing, and the mesmerizing, comforting image of his deceased wife in the corner.

Just then, he heard a knock at the door. Lifting his head, he saved his work and placed his computer on "sleep" mode. As the screen faded into black, the words "Project Firestorm" could briefly be glimpsed for a half-second. Throwing on a t-shirt and shorts, Chuck left his room and made his way downstairs. Passing by Clara's room, he noticed his niece with headphones in her ear, immersed in Isaac Asimov's Foundation and Empire. 'Good taste for a 12 year old,' he thought to himself. Again, he heard knocking.

"Hold on, I'm coming," he called out. Opening the door, he saw Abby and Morgan standing before him. Abby was casually dressed. Above her waist, she draped herself in a Philadelphia Phillies t-shirt. Below, she wore loose-fitting sweatpants and sneakers. She was not wearing makeup. Chuck had never seen her looking so natural. But she was just as stunning as ever. Morgan, for reasons unknown to Chuck, was dressed far spiffier – a dark blue button-down shirt, and black slacks. He reeked of cologne.

"Heyyyou . . . um, hi, what are you doing here?" Chuck asked.

Abby jumped in, "you need a night out Chuck, around people. The incident at Goldenview proved it"

"With you?" Chuck asked, leaving it unsaid that Abby obviously wasn't dressed for it.

"Not with me silly, with Morgan." Abby replied. Morgan gave a small wave, and spoke: "hiya buddy, it's been awhile."

Chuck responded, "I can't, not tonight. Ellie and Awesome both have evening shifts at the hospital. I'm on childcare duty." Chuck responded.

"I've got you covered," Abby answered, handing him a piece of paper:

_I, Ellie Woodcomb, being of sound mind and body, hereby give my brother, Chuck Bartowski, permission to spend one night out with his friend Morgan once the kids are in bed, entrusting their precious sleeping souls to the care of Abby Cooper. _

"So, the little troopers, are they sleep?" Abby asked with pep.

"It's after 9. Peter, Steven, and Diana are asleep. Clara is in her room, reading." Chuck answered.

"She usually gets herself to bed, right?" Abby asked.

"Yeah."

"I think I can handle her," Abby smirked. She continued, "besides, it's time I paid Sarah back for all those times she used to babysit me growing up," winking her eye towards Chuck at the babysitting reference.

"I think Ellie might have an issue with that." Chuck responded.

"Let's find out," Abby responded, whipping out her cell-phone. "Ellie, it's Abby. Everyone except Clara is asleep. Can Chuck go play with Morgan?" Abby hummed for a moment, then continued "Ellie wants to talk to you, Chuck," and passed the phone to him.

Ellie spoke over the phone, _"Little brother, Clara's a big girl. She can get to bed without you. Get out of the house and have fun. That's an order._"

"Alright, you've got me," Chuck responded, speaking to Ellie through the earpiece, but facing Abby and Morgan. "You're right. It's been ages. I'll try to have some fun."

"Do, or do not. There is no try," Morgan squeaked in a Yoda-voice, "Come on, are you up for some booze and sizzling shrimp?"

As they departed Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb, Chuck reminisced. Fifteen years ago, he felt guilty that a gorgeous CIA agent was stuck in Burbank, babysitting a nerd. Now, another gorgeous CIA agent was in Burbank, seemingly happily, literally babysitting his children.

* * *

**May 20, 2022, 9:35 p.m., Rusty Hanger Bar and Grill**

"We're here. . ." Morgan said, as his Kia Forte pulled up in front of the Rusty Hanger Bar and Grill.

"No Bamboo Dragon?" Chuck asked, a little surprised at Morgan's choice of venue.

"That place is too sit down. You need to get out Chuck, mingle."

Looking inside through the window, Chuck saw a packed bar, with two hundred people crowed around little cocktail tables. The women were scantily clad. The men were dressed up, some with gold chains, many with slicked back hair. The average age appeared to be about 29, more than 10 years younger than him or Morgan. Though the window should have blocked odors, Chuck somehow picked up the strong whiff of cheap perfume and cologne emanating from the establishment. _'Must be my imagination,_' Chuck thought.

Chuck let out a Casey-esque grunt. He was up for dinner with a friend. But meshing his way through a packed, noisy bar? He'd rather be back at his computer, writing code. Yet they were here, and Morgan seemed intent on going on.

"Alright, you win man." Chuck said, reservedly.

Walking in, Chuck laughed to himself. _'Not my imagination. This place reeks.' _Chuck handed the hostess at the door a $20 bill. The hostess immediately escorted them to a small roped-off table at the back of the bar, which carried the sign "Reserved for Morgan Grimes."

Noticing the sign, Chuck turned to his bearded friend, "You planned this, for how long?"

"A few days, it was Abby's idea. The _Company _paid for the reserved table," Morgan said. Chuck nodded. He had suspected as much ever since Abby had mentioned Goldenview. This wasn't just a social outing. This was a joint CIA/NSA training exercise to get him socially re-adjusted. _'To her credit, Abby wasn't trying to hide it,'_ Chuck thought. Not that he minded, necessarily. There were many worse ways to spend a Friday night, particularly when the CIA/NSA was involved.

"The noodles and shrimp-thingy appetizer, and a Guinness," Mogan stated, handing the menu to the cocktail waitress who was removing the velvet rope around the table.

"And you sir?" asked the waitress as she turned towards Chuck.

"Beer, whatever is cheapest." Chuck replied.

"Coming right up," the waitress said, as she grabbed the other menu and walked away.

"Man, how long has it been since we just went out, got beers, and chilled. . . since before Sarah, you know, right?" Morgan asked, sitting down at the little cocktail table. Chuck just nodded.

"We've hung out man," Chuck responded, his non-verbal nod having already answered the question.

"Barely. And we haven't _gone _out. I'm sorry man," Morgan said, his eyes dripping downward towards his beer and shrimp appetizer, "I let you down, I wasn't there for you."

"Morgan, what are you talking about, you've been here, always."

"No, I wasn't. I was around, but I wasn't _there _for you. Me and Alex went to shit right before Sarah died," Morgan said, as Chuck continued to nod, "And I was so tied up in my own self-pity that I couldn't really be there when you needed me most."

"I'm a big boy, Morgan."

"But I was literally both your best man and your minister. It was my job to sit with you when you need to sit, talk when you needed to talk, and drag you off your ass when the time came . . . and I didn't."

"A time to mourn and a time to dance?" Chuck asked.

"The Byrds?" Morgan queried.

"I don't know, maybe. But I was thinking Ecclesiastes. This damn new Intersect. Beckman didn't tell me about the cultural programming."

"Huh?"

"The new Intersect. It's not just intelligence data and skills. I've got enormous amounts of religious and cultural mumbo jumbo stuck in my head. And it doesn't work like the intelligence data. Most of the time, I don't even need to flash on it. It's just 'there,' all the time, somewhere in my long-term memory. I can recite the Quran, recount Papal encyclicals, or quote the Vedas just as easily as I can pull a Star Wars reference. It's messing with my head."

"Whoah . . . that's um. . . what's it doing, . . . making you more religious?" Morgan asked, both perplexed and a little scared at what the Intersect was doing to his friend.

"No, nothing like that. I just meant in terms of my internal monologue, frame of mind. That sort of thing. I spent years flashing on assassins and it didn't make me want to go kill people for money. The religious stuff works the same way. You could say it's kinda like Star Wars. There are useful, even insightful lessons about life. And then there's the Phantom Menace."

"So, the most important question then: the Bible or Star Wars?" Morgan asked.

"Not even a debate, my young apprentice." Chuck replied, reassuring the Bearded One.

"Why do you think Beckman dumped all this stuff into the new Intersect?"

"I can only figure that this intersect wasn't meant for me. It was designed for someone going deep undercover. To enable any agent to _become_ a Pakistani Parsisi or a Columbian villager, and perfectly blend, just like that. It's not just religious stuff either. Cultural mores, folk songs, historical facts, customs, even recipes."

As Chuck spoke, the waitress returned and silently placed their orders before them.

"In any event, man, I just wanted to say sorry, again, for not being a better friend," Morgan said.

"Enough with the blame game. Nothing is your fault, and the past is past. Now, to the future!" Chuck said, lifting his bear, then clanging it against Morgan's to toast.

"Alright, the future. So tell me, you and Abby, is there anything there?" Morgan asked, as he brought a fork filled with noodles to his mouth.

Chuck stammered, losing is composure for a second, largely out of surprise. "I'm not going to lie. Abby's beautiful. But Sarah . . . she's still here, you know," he replied, pointing to his heart, "Besides, Abby is 32 going on 17. She's got this hero-worshipping thing going on with me and Casey. It makes me, uncomfortable. We're not who she thinks we are. Even if I were up for it, and I'm not, she's just too naive. I'm not going to take advantage of her."

"Trust me, that girl is far from naive. No one joins the CIA to bake cookies. And no one stays innocent after the Farm and a few years in the field." Morgan responded.

"Fair enough buddy. I've actually got a small confession to make. . . I tried to get rid of her, dump her on Jeff as a cover girlfriend." Chuck said, an embarrassed smile creeping across his face.

"You did what now? Why?" Morgan responded.

"Doesn't matter. Beckman didn't go for it. She said that Jeff had no need for protective detail, and that she'd just draw attention to him. She's probably right." Chuck answered.

Pausing for a moment, Chuck decided to flip the interrogation on his bearded friend, ""Now, Casey's been asking . . . . You and Alex, any chance there?"

Morgan sighed. Alex was a sore subject for him. "She hurt me man. I'm not sure what's worse, the cheating or the not telling me. Having to find out years later, when her asshole professor's wife subpoenaed Alex for their divorce trial." Morgan's voice tinged with bitterness.

Chuck remembered the story. He'd heard it many times: Alex stumbled into a ten-week affair with her graduate school thesis advisor. And, just as Morgan wasn't there for him, he hadn't been there for Morgan. Maybe, if he had been, Morgan might have handled the situation better, more maturely.

"You know the truth now, Morgan. She made a mistake, she broke it off after a few months. . . and you two were happy, weren't you, for years afterwards?" Chuck asked. This time, Morgan gave a soft nod.

"And if you never found out, you'd still be happy, right?" Chuck asked.

"I don't know. . . I guess so."

"Did you ever consider that maybe she didn't tell you . . . for you?" Chuck asked.

As a tear slid down Chuck's cheek, he continued: "Look Morgan. The love of my life is gone. I've pretty much booked the next fifty years as alone time. Yours is still alive. Think about whether you want to wallow in my loneliness, or take another shot at it."

"Hey, what are heterosexual life partners for?" Morgan replied, somewhat sarcastically, this time bringing his beer to clang against Chuck's, before continuing "And enough of this _'fifty years of loneliness'_ crap. Wait here."

Morgan left the table. Not really paying attention to where Morgan went, Chuck returned to nursing his beer and nibbling his shrimp. He checked his phone, repeatedly. Abby had texted "Clara's asleep, all good." Nothing else of significance. No emergency summons from Casey or Beckman. No breaking news. Chuck sighed. It's not that he wasn't enjoying himself, he was. Sort of. But he was half-hoping to have a reason to bail. The bar was crowed, and getting crowdier. The music was loud and awful. He was too old for this scene. Heck, he hated this scene when he wasn't too old for it. And Morgan had seemingly disappeared.

Just then, Morgan came back, accompanied by two women – a tall blond, mid-30s, in a silver strapless top, and a mousey early 30s brunette with glasses, wearing a light red jacket, on top of a t-shirt.

"Chuck, I'd like you to meet Maureen and Judy," Morgan said, pointing to the two girls. From Morgan's hand gestures, Chuck could figure out that Maureen was the tall bleach-blond, and Judy was the brunette. "Ladies, Chuck Bartowski."

"Pleased to meet you Chuck," Judy said invitingly, before she caught a glimpse of Chuck's ring. Suddenly, her tone turned harsh. "And what would your _wife _think, _Chuck_, about you being out here tonight."

"Don't know. She'd probably be happy I'm out. She passed a few years ago." Chuck answered.

Judy turned apologetic. She placed her hand on Chuck's left hand, and gave him a small rub. Her eyes darted towards his with sympathy. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. . . you still wear your ring."

"Still married. Just separated . . . in a manner of speaking." Chuck answered.

"Are you sure you should be out here?" Judy asked, her hand now resting on top of Chuck's.

"Not really, but Morgan thought I should try. He's a really great guy. He's trying, hard, to get me to live again. He's always been there for me"

Judy suddenly caught Morgan's eyes. Morgan was trying to talk to Maureen, without much luck. Maureen motioned to Judy to leave.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Judy said to Chuck. Pulling out a business card, she scribbled something down. As she left Chuck and Morgan, she slipped the card into Morgan's hand.

"What was that about?" Chuck asked.

"Read it yourself," Morgan said.

_Anyone who is that good a friend can call me._

_Judy_.

"Chuck, wingman extraordinaire." Morgan replied.

Just then, Chuck and Morgan each felt a familiar pinch in their backs. They glared at each other. It had been awhile, but both remembered the feeling of a gun's nuzzle pressed against their flesh.

"Agent Carmichael," a raspy, heavily accented voice whispered. Now directing itself towards Morgan, the voice continued, "and they call you, _'the Magnet_,' isn't that correct? Both of you, please come with us. Don't make a scene. I'd hate to leave two dead bodies in such a nice establishment."

* * *

**A/N - I hope to continue to post roughly weekly. Please leave reviews & PMs giving me your thoughts. I recognize this story is somewhat "unconventional," but if I'm going to write, I'm going to write something new. And I doubt most of you have any idea where it's going. . . **


	8. The Revival and Retirement of Carmichael

**A/N:** Still don't own Chuck. Still not making any money off of this. Still like reviews. _Also, please consider posting & discussing this story on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group. _

* * *

**May 22, 2022, 11:20 p.m., The Rusty Hanger Bar & Grill**

"We don't want any trouble, we'll go quietly." Chuck responded to the heavy-accented whispering gunman. "Yeah, what he said," Morgan added. "Good," the heavy-accented whispering gunman replied.

Chuck put his hand down and began reaching into his back pocket, when the heavy-accented whispering gunman stopped him. Chuck explained his intentions: "I'm only getting money to pay the check, is that ok? I mean, just because you're kidnapping us doesn't mean we should stiff our very nice waitress or the fine proprietor of this establishment with the bill." The heavy-accented whispering gunman slightly nodded his head, signaling "ok." Receiving permission, Chuck pulled out two $20 bills from his wallet and put them on the table. As he did so, Chuck nonchalantly pressed a small button on the inside of the wallet. "Um, can I wait for change?" Chuck asked. "No. You leave now," responded the heavy-accented whispering gunman. "Alright, alright, I knew I was pressing my luck." Chuck answered.

With that, the gunmen, Chuck, and Morgan all walked quietly out of the Rusty Hanger. Once outside, both of them felt the gun nozzles on their backsides motioning them into an alley, where a black Lincoln Navigator greeted them. The accomplice gunman beep-beeped his car keys, and the Navigator's cargo door opened. As the gun nozzles motioned them further onward, Chuck and Morgan noticed fabric and rope in the Navigator's cargo hold. "You stay still, Mr. Carmichael, while my friend ties up _'the Magnet,´ _or you both die," threatened the heavily-accented masked gunman. Chuck obeyed. Morgan, blind folded, tied up, and strapped in, was placed in the cargo hold. "Now, it's your turn, Mr. Carmichael," stated the accomplice.

Chuck protested: "You know, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration recommends that car passengers always wear seat belts . . . I don't think rope and duct tape qualifies; I'm just saying." Ignoring his pleas, both gunmen began tying him up. After Chuck concluded his remarks, the accomplice grunted disagreeably, and brought his pistol up to caress Chuck's cheek. "Ok, ok, I'm shutting up now," Chuck said, apologetically.

As the gunmen forced Chuck into the cargo hold beside him, Morgan tried to lessen the tension. "Just like old times, kind of makes you nostalgic, huh?" Morgan joked. "Please, it's not even Monday," Chuck replied, "and you're much less pretty than Sarah."

The car ride lasted about twenty minutes. Eventually, the Navigator stopped, the cargo hold door flung upwards, and Chuck and Morgan were grabbed forcefully out of the SUV. Gun nozzles once again at their backs, the gunmen motioned them forward about twenty feet, then up four steps, then inside a door. Continuing onward, Chuck and Morgan were further motioned down a flight of stairs. Once downstairs, the gunmen forcefully grabbed the two friends, shoved them forward, then shoved them into each other. Their eyes still blindfolded, Chuck and Morgan could feel rope and tape binding their arms together, and tying them up against a concrete support. Shortly thereafter, the blindfolds came off. Chuck and Morgan looked around and saw a non-descript, unfurnished basement of what appeared to be a residential house, with the two of them tied up against a square retaining pole.

"Now, you wait," the heavily-accented masked gunman declared.

The two kidnappers then retreated into a corner of the room, and began talking with each other in a foreign language. Chuck recognized it. Estonian. He quickly flashed, and began eavesdropping in on their conversation.

_Translated from Estonian_

"_What now, Markus?" the accomplice asked. _

"_We wait for instructions," responded the heavily accented gunman now known as Markus. "Our employer should call us soon. No slip-ups on this one, my daughter just got into NYU."_

_"NYU? Good school. Expensive, though. What does she want to study?" replied the accomplice. _

"_English literature. I don't understand it, but if it's what my baby girl wants, it's what I'll give to her." Markus answered. _

"_No slip-ups, understood. I understand. I'm paying through the roof for U Penn and Oberlin. Thieving American colleges. And my broker is on my ass. I lost a shitload on oil futures last month, and am facing margin calls on my portfolio." _

Chuck flashed again, this time identifying both gunmen: Markus Ivanov, age 51 and Rasmus Kask, age 47. Former Estonian military. For the past fifteen years, both had built a colorful career as professional kidnappers and assassins. Both were family men: Markus with four daughters, Rasmus with two sons and three daughters. Chuck quickly pulled together all available information and used the intersect to run an incomplete psych profile.

A few seconds later, Markus' cell-phone rang. He answered it and listened. After approximately one minute, Markus spoke only a single word, "understood," then ended the call. Walking over to Chuck, wagging his gun, Ivanov announced his intentions. "Mr. Carmichael, five years ago, you, _'the Magnet_,' and a leggy very pregnant blond woman somehow managed to steal a vial of smallpox.*** We believe you were working on behalf of your C.I.A. My employer wants this vial. If you value your lives, tell me where he can find it."

* * *

**May 22, 2022, 11:29 p.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

A frantic Abby answered her cellphone.

"Cooper, it's Casey. Chuck activated one of his emergency distress buttons. Where is he?"

"I saw, I was dialing you when you called. From what I can tell, he's in a car moving . . . he's actually coming back in this direction, towards Burbank. I called his phone three times, but it went straight to voice mail. I called Morgan's too. Same outcome. Something's wrong."

"Abby, can you take the lead? I'm stuck in Rancho Cucmonga at the retirement party for an old NSA buddy, and there's an accident on 210. It could be two hours before I'm able to get there."

"Ugh. Not at present. I'm babysitting the Barstowski-Woodcomb kids. Devon is in surgery; a donor heart just became available tonight. Ellie's pulling a late shift and isn't supposed to be home till 3."

"Why the hell is a CIA agent babysitting nerd spawn?" Casey inquired.

Abby replied: "It's a long story. The short-version is - orders from Beckman. We're trying to get the nerd back in the game. Can we scramble back-up?"

Casey answered, "At this time on a Friday night? Probably not on short notice, unless we want to involve the local police. Spoiler: we don't. I'm not risking Chuck's or Morgan's life by involving those trigger-happy idiots."

Although Casey was on the phone, Abby instinctively nodded her head in agreement. This wasn't a job for the police, she thought, and she certainly didn't want to handle the unwelcome questions that would come from the local cops about why kidnappers had targeted Chuck and Morgan.

"Alright, it can't hurt to call and see the expected wait time is for NSA or FBI backup. Casey, can you do that? I'll call the hospital and see if either Ellie or Devon can get her sooner. In the meantime, Chuck and Morgan will have to sit-tight."

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 12:13 a.m., Unknown Residential Basement**

"Let me get this straight. You want us to tell you what happened to a vial we stole five years ago? Your boss is an incredibly stupid criminal," Chuck quipped.

"What do you mean?," replied Markus.

"How the hell am I supposed to know where the vial is? We gave it to our superiors. I don't have a clue what they did with it. But I can give you two very good guesses: they either destroyed it, or they buried it in a storage bunker so deep and heavily guarded that Hades himself couldn't break-in and get it. Either way, your boss' plan is screwed. And another thing. . ."

"What?," inquired Markus, his curiosity peaked, as an expression of surprise and admiration grew on his face. _'These are very brave and brazen hostages,' _he thought.

"Not only is your boss a moron, you and your compadre must be two of the stupidest henchmen to ever kidnap us," Chuck snarled.

Markus laughed, then replied: "Insulting us won't get you freed. But it might get you dead. If you have no useful information, why shouldn't we just kill you now?"

"Who said I didn't have useful information? I only said I didn't know what happened to your stupid smallpox vial. Think. You kidnapped two CIA agents. We might not know where to find a virus that will kill millions of people, but we know lots of other useful things that could make you and your friend very rich, legitimately."

"Like what?," Markus asked, his innate greed beginning to stir and rise together with his opinion of the tall, dark-haired, and seemingly fearless hostage.

"I speak a little Estonian. I overheard you. Your friend plays the oil futures, right? Does he know that Yemeni Houthis are planning to target the Ghawar oil field in Saudi Arabia next week? Even if they fail, the impact of their actions will rock oil markets worldwide and cause prices to spike. And if they succeed, woah buddy. . . Let me break it down for you, ok? Today's a good day to buy oil futures," Chuck imparted.

"How do you know this?," Markus asked.

"Hello, did I mention _'CIA Agents_,'? You know we need to review this kind of information daily, don't you?," Chuck incredulously responded.

"What else do you know? And Rasmus, wake your broker up and get him on the line." Markus replied, his smile transforming into a devilish grin.

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 1:21 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Ellie burst through the door, greeting a startled Abby and shaking her uncontrollably. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry . . . I got here as soon as I could. My cellphone was off. There was a major accident tonight, it was all hands on deck. . . They couldn't reach me Is Chuck ok? Where is Chuck? Tell me my brother is ok? This is all my fault, getting him back into this life. I can't believe I wanted this for him. I must have been insane."

"Ellie, your spiraling. Chuck's a big boy. He's been through all this before. He's fine. And we're lucky: he's only a mile away. The kidnappers brought him practically to your front door. Now let me go rescue him. Hope you don't mind that I borrowed your skates." Abby replied. She hugged Ellie, then rushed out the door. Ellie immediately turned around. Turning 180 degrees, she saw only to see the shrinking image of Abby Cooper, in Ellie's roller-skates, blazing down the street. _'Smart girl. Fastest way around the neighborhood, this time of night,' _Ellie thought.

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 1:27 a.m., Unknown Residential Basement**

"People assume that emerging markets will generate superior returns as their economies grow, but historically that hasn't been the case. The problem is that emerging market equities don't closely correlate with the local economies, and many of the most promising emerging market companies choose to list their stock on the NASDAQ instead. Plus, the variance in emerging markets from month-to-month can be crippling. If you want to safeguard your capital from market fluctuations, it's best to avoid them," Chuck coached, continuing his tutorial to Markus and Rasmus. By this time, both of the gunmen were sitting down, "Indian-style," in front of the tied-up Chuck and Morgan. Rasmus had grabbed a legal pad and was studiously taking notes, to the point where his gun now rested beside him. Roughly twenty minutes before, Chuck had exhausted his knowledge of any conceivable current events that could have an impact on short-term investments. Seeking to keep his captors occupied, Chuck had expanded his impromptu personal finance lesson to include 529 college savings accounts, Roth 401(k)s, the benefits of index-tracking ETFs over actively-managed funds, and the comparative risks of different forms of investments.

Now, needing to buy more time, Chuck decided to branch out into other forms of financial advice. "Of course, those of the criminal persuasion will also need to successfully launder their ill-gotten proceeds to generate taxable income. Otherwise, you'll face the same problem Al Capone did. You know it was tax evasion that brought him down, right?" Chuck commented. "Real estate is one way to do so, using off-shore accounts as collateral for low or no-money down loans. The beauty of real estate is that depreciation throws off fictious losses for tax purposes. It's how Trump made a fortune in the 1980s, while legally reporting massive losses to the IRS. Another promising front for the smart criminal is the local barber shop. They are pure cash businesses, and their expenses don't closely correlate to their sales. That makes it easy for them to overstate income and launder criminal proceeds as profits."

As Chuck kept speaking, the corner of his eye caught Abby Cooper silently descending the stairs. Abby placed one finger in front of her mouth, signaling "shush." As Chuck kept instructing his kidnappers on the finer points of successful money-laundering, Abby quietly reached into her holster and removed her pistol. She lifted the pistol and aimed. She pulled the trigger.

_Psst – Psst – Psst – Psst_

Four shots, fired in rapid succession. Two went into the backside of Markus' skull, killing him instantly. The third went directly into Rasmus' brain, ending his existence. The fourth?

"Ahhghghghgh . . . I'm shot! Holy fuck that hurts! I'm going into shock. Fuck that hurts. I'm dying, I'm dying Chuck," Morgan screamed, grabbing his right shoulder.

Chuck freaked, but quickly sought to calm his bearded friend. "Hey buddy, hold on there. It's just your shoulder. You'll get patched up, good as new. Don't freak out." Jerking his head, Chuck cried out, "Abby. . . Call an ambulance. Now! And have you ever heard of, you know, maybe giving the bad guys a chance to surrender before opening fire?"

Abby responded with a disturbing calm: "Too risky, Chuck. Dead men don't fight back. Protecting you is the priority. Always. Now you stay here with Morgan, and I'll go get help."

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 6:15 a.m., Castle**

"How is Mr. Grimes doing, Agent Carmichael?" General Beckman asked, her face beaming forth from Castle's monitor, to the sitting trio of Chuck, Abby, and Casey.

"He was in surgery overnight to remove the bullet. The initial reports are good. There shouldn't be any permanent damage. He's sleeping now, I'm going to see him once visiting hours begin. Of course, none of this would be necessary if _someone _hadn't simply disarmed the hostiles without gun play," Chuck replied, directing an antagonistic glare in Abby's direction, then continuing, "In my opinion, General, they would have surrendered peacefully."

"I've been briefed on Agent Cooper's response. I consider it appropriate under the circumstances. She grabbed a sure-fire opportunity to take down both Ivanov and Kask. Her alternative options placed both you and Mr. Grimes at greater risk," General Beckman responded.

Chuck shrugged. He hated to admit it, but he begrudgingly agreed that General Beckman was right. Transfixed by his financial advice, Rasmus had foolishly disarmed himself. Markus, conversely, still had his weapon pointed at both himself and Morgan. If Abby had played it differently, it's likely that both of the gunmen would still be alive and in custody. But it's also possible that Markus or Rasmus may have attempted something foolish, and got him or Morgan dead.

"Now on to another matter, do I understand your initial report correctly, Agent Carmichael? You not only disclosed but actually _volunteered_ classified intelligence to kidnappers, in an effort to buy time and extend your own life?"

"Not exactly, General. Some of what I told the abductors may, technically, have come from classified sources. But it was the type of 'classified' information collected by some lazy CIA analyst in Dubai who reads the New York Times, re-types an article on page A3 as a confidential report, and stamps it classified. You know what I'm talking about."

The General nodded. Far too many CIA and NSA reports were written that way. The problem of over-classification of public information was one of the longest-running and worst known secrets within the intelligence community.

Chuck continued, "And a lot of what I said was, um, how to put it. . . embellished, I guess you would say."

"Meaning what, Chuck?" General Beckman asked

"I lied my ass off, General. All I needed to do was buy time." Chuck said, cracking a smile. General Beckman smiled in return, a smile which Casey and Abby soon shared.

"There's one thing I don't understand Chuck. Per your report, much of what you discussed with the kidnappers consisted of, essentially, tax and financial planning advice. That kind of information isn't in the Intersect, and you don't have a background in it. How did you even know enough to, um, lie your ass off?" General Beckman inquired.

"Ah, that. I was stuck in the Fielding Financial cover office for a few hours last week, waiting for certain assets to show up. I got bored and actually read some of those dusty books on the shelf."

"Am I to understand that you successfully saved your own life, and Mr. Grimes' life, by spewing forth useless intelligence and providing bullshit financial guidance, until help could arrive?"

"I guess you could say that, General." Chuck responded.

"Well, all I can say is . . . . Welcome back, Charles Carmichael." General Beckman exclaimed, her voice and smile now positively radiant.

"About that General. I start _'consulting,'_ again, and roughly a month later two utterly unremarkable bad guys pinch me and Morgan? It's too much of a coincidence. I'm worried that we have a leak somewhere."

"That's a valid concern. We'll look into it, Chuck," General Beckman responded.

"Something else, General. Whether it was a leak or a coincidence, it was probably a mistake for me to resume my old cover identity. Charles Carmichael made far too many enemies. It's probably best that he stays retired."

"Alright, I don't have a problem with that. What would you like to be called?"

"How about Charlie Pulaski?," Chuck asked.

"Ok, _Charlie_," the General said. As she did so, the General shot Chuck a knowing look. She recognized the meaning of "Pulaski": Sarah's real family name.

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 9:37 p.m., Apartment of Abby Cooper**

"It appears your suggested _'exercise_' was a success, Agent Cooper." General Beckman exclaimed, her image and voice exclaimed from Abby's television.

"Yes, as I predicted, the risk to Mr. Grimes' life motivated Agent Pulaksi to use both the Intersect and his own intrinsic talents to maximum effectiveness. There's a track record of this sort of thing. Whenever Mr. Grimes is in danger, Agent Pulaski manages to snap out of whatever emotional baggage has rendered him ineffective. From a certain point of view, you could say that Mr. Grimes saved Agent Pulaski, once again."

"We could have used our own people for this, why employ outside assets?" General Beckman asked.

"The Intersect, General. Chuck would have recognized our own agents, and deduced that he was not in danger. That would have jeopardized the effectiveness of the exercise," Abby responded.

"What about the risks to Agent Pulaski and Mr. Grimes by using professional kidnappers . . . or, hell, you shot Mr. Grimes."

"That was a mistake General, an unfortunate misfire. But Agent Pulaski and Mr. Grimes were never in unacceptable danger. The Estonian assets were under strict instructions not to harm the hostages. To threaten them, sure. Maybe beat them up a little. But not to kill them. The assets believed that, eventually, the hostages were to be ransomed. Per their track-records, the assets always followed their employers' instructions. Killing Chuck or Morgan would have threatened their big payday."

"If that's the case, did you need to terminate the Estonian assets, Agent Cooper? We can use assets who follow orders. They could have proved beneficial to us in the future."

"Dead men don't talk, General. Besides, they didn't know who they were dealing with. As far as they knew, they had been hired to kidnap Agent Pulaski and Mr. Grimes, to secure the location of the smallpox vial."

"And what are the risks that Agent Pulaski tracks this back to us? He is quite resourceful."

"Minimal, General. The assets were paid in coin, through a series of dummy accounts, untraceable – even for someone like Agent Pulaski. The only communications with them were through a burner phone, with us speaking via a computer-generated voice. That burner phone has now been destroyed."

"I do have one concern, Agent Cooper. Agent Pulaski is a family man, with two children and a meddling sister. He began _'consulting_' again on the promise that he would be kept safe. This recent episode may cause him to reconsider our arrangement, either by himself or under pressure from his sister."

"Unlikely, General. You saw the sparkle in Agent Pulaski's eye this morning."

The General nodded, "I did. He hasn't looked like that in years, not since Sarah passed."

Abby explained her thinking: "Agent Pulaski won't admit it to himself, but he _likes _this life. He thrives on it. His wife did too. That's why neither of them ever managed to make a clean break from it, despite their repeated pledges to each other and their purportedly earnest representations to you. Chuck knows what his life was like six weeks ago. He's not going to want to go back to it."

"But won't placing Agent Pulaski in danger further alienate him from his children and sister?"

"I certainly hope so, General."

* * *

*****A/N: Please keep the reviews & PMs coming. It's great to know that people are appreciating this work. It's also helpful to hear what's working and what isn't. **

**Also, I've gotten some requests to fill-out the backstory a bit. I've got it pretty much worked out in my mind, but don't see a reason to write flashbacks that don't further the main story's overall narrative. **

**In the case of the smallpox vial, the basic gist is that, while Sarah is a little more than 8 months pregnant, the team gets sent to a party where they believe a vial of smallpox will be transferred. Sarah, accompanied by Morgan as her cover husband, fakes going into labor. This creates a distraction that enables Chuck to switch the briefcase and scamper out with the vial. As Chuck runs way to bring the vial somewhere safe, Sarah _actually_ goes into labor, and Morgan doesn't quite figure out that she's no longer acting . . . Maybe I'll write that story on a different day. **


	9. I had a brother once

_**A/N:** I don't own Chuck. I'm not making money off this. I still like reviews. _

_Previously on Chuck: The Echo of Memory [if you've skipped it, I recommend going back and reading Chapter 7] _

_Chuck experiences an Evening With Morgan. Chuck and Morgan get kidnapped. Chuck bullshits his way into buying valuable time. Abby shoots the kidnappers dead, without giving them a chance to surrender. Chuck dumps "Carmichael" and becomes Charlie Pulaski. Behind Chuck's back, Abby and General Beckman toast to how successfully the planned kidnapping went. General Beckman warns Abby that putting Chuck in danger will alienate him from his kids and family. Abby responds "I certainly hope so, General."_

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 9:30 a.m. Westside Hospital**

Chuck knocked on Morgan's hospital door. "Hi buddy. Are you up? Want some company?"

"Of course man, come on in." Morgan responded from his hospital bed, putting down a glass of orange juice.

Chuck entered and took a seat on the empty chair next to Morgan's bed.

"I can't believe that Abby shot me. Hasn't she ever heard of asking the bad guys to surrender? Or thought about using tranqs?," Morgan asked, a disgruntled expression peaking upward from his chin.

"I know buddy, I get it. I already went to Beckman about it, but she backed Abby's call."

"The protection of the Intersect, and all that jazz?" Morgan asked.

Chuck pondered a bit, then spoke: "Yeah, something like that. Thing is, the more I think about it, the less I buy it. Something's up with her and Beckman. I mean, besides violating the whole 'don't kill people you don't have to,' principle. Shooting to protect the Intersect only works if you have perfect aim. Abby doesn't. She's not like Casey. Or Sarah. Especially Sarah. She hit you. But she could just have easily have hit me. Then there's the other thing. . . "

"What?"

"How damn calm she was. She killed two people, wounded you, and it's like it had the emotional impact for her of choosing a brand of table salt." Chuck noted.

"Any different from Casey and Sarah, especially when you met them?" Morgan inquired.

Chuck thought deeply. He had seen both Casey and Sarah kill many times and go on, seemingly unaffected. "Yes . . ., no, well . . . um, I don't know. With Sarah and Casey, I always knew there was something underneath, something good. With Abby, I don't know. Even at the beginning, before I Chuckified them, Sarah and Casey, if they wounded a civilian, they would have _felt _something."

"So what are you going to do?"

Chuck looked up at the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration, then remarked: "I'm not sure. But things don't add up. I may need to get close to her, closer than I would like. Now, as for you, are you ok?"

"Me. I'm dandy. It's not like I haven't been shot before."

"You know, Morgan, there was a second, half-a-second, when you screamed in terror and I thought I lost you. You're my brother, and because of her, I almost lost you. Ten inches more to the left and, you know."

"I lost a brother once," Morgan replied, smiling at Chuck, "but, seeing you last night, I'm lucky. I got him back."

"Paraphrasing Star Trek V, seriously?" Chuck asked, returning his bearded friend's smile.

"Most underrated of the original cast films. It's the only one that really captured the Holy Trinity of Kirk, Spock, and McCoy," Morgan answered, making the sign of the cross for emphasis.

"Does that make you Kirk, and me Spock? Because I'm far too emotional to be Spock." Chuck responding, laughing.

"No, you're Kirk. I'm more like a less cranky, less antsy McCoy. But seriously, getting kidnapped and everything, it was the most _alive _you've been in years. And pulling that financial crap out of your rear to save our hides, that's the Kirk I remember. The _kobiyashi maru_ Kirk. The 'I don't like to lose," Kirk."

"I know," Chuck responded in a whisper, his smile disappearing. A despondent shadow crept across Chuck's face, and thoughts screamed through his head:

'_How screwed up do I have to be that it takes getting kidnapped and held at gun point to bring out the best of me? What's even screwier is that the whole mess is probably the most *fun* I've had in years. Yes, *fun.* The rush. The damn rush. How can I possibly think that?' _

Chuck's inner monologue kept spiraling. Trying to regain his footing, he turned back towards Morgan and spoke: "You know, Diana's been learning about other planets in kindergarten. I don't know where she got it from, but two days ago, she actually asked me if God needs a spaceship to visit Mars. You know how I responded?"

"You didn't."

"I did."

"What does God need with a starship?" the two friends said simultaneously, breaking into laughter.

Just then, they heard a soft knock on the hospital door.

"Hi, am I interrupting?" Alex Grimes said, peaking her head in.

"No, I was just leaving," Chuck responded. Chuck gave Morgan a soft nod as he got up from his chair, stood up, and threw his wind windbreaker over his shoulder. As he did, Morgan translated Chuck's non-verbal cues -

"_Of course she's interrupting, Morgan, but you two need to talk so I'm getting out of your way. It's for your own good, little buddy" _

Morgan nodded back, slightly shaking his head exasperatedly. Chuck translated his nods from Morgonese -

"_Come on man, you're leaving me?"_

Chuck gave another nod, this time an obvious "yes," and began walking towards the door.

"I brought you a coffee, you can have coffee, right?" Alex asked.

As Chuck left the room, Morgan begrudgingly waved Alex in, inviting her to sit upon the empty chair that Chuck recently vacated.

"I'd love a coffee, thank you." Morgan said.

"You've been ducking my calls, Morgan." Alex said, firmly.

"I know," Morgan sighed.

"Figured I'd catch you when you're kind of a captive audience. My dad filled me in. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine, and I don't need to get shot to speak with you Alex, it's just, um, I didn't know what to say."

"So why don't you listen?" Alex pleaded.

Morgan softly nodded "o.k."

"I want you back, Morgan. I have for a long time. Heck, I never wanted you gone. I know I screwed up. I know it's been three years. But can you see the way to giving us another chance?"

"What about the studly rich assbutts you've been dating? What about Bryan?"

"Bryan was mean, cruel." Alex explained.

"Jorge?" Morgan asked.

"Jorge was a bore and a drunk." Alex

"Bryce?"

"A good baseball player, but a total douche."

"Figures, with that name," Morgan quipped.

"Morgan. Stop. The other guys all had one flaw. They weren't you. I miss my little kind, sweet, bearded troll. It was a big mistake, Morgan, that I made, but it was one mistake .. can't you forgive me?" Alex beseeched.

"You don't get it, do you? I can't forgive myself. My insecurities, my childishness. That's what drove you to him in the first place." Morgan responded.

Alex thought back. Morgan had a point, from a certain point of view. Before the affair, they had been feuding over Morgan's Peter Pan syndrome. He had been pushing off having children. He didn't think _deep _about history, art, or politics. Despite their nearly 10-year age gap, she often felt like he was the child. Professor Green just seemed so worldly, so knowledgeable, so adult. That's how she stumbled.

"Morgan, nothing was your fault. I made my own mistakes. You never did anything other than dote on me. That's why I broke it off with _'Professor Assbutt' _so quickly. That's why I never told you. I didn't want to hurt you, more than I had."

Morgan sighed: "A great nerd prophet once said, marry someone just attractive enough to turn you on. Anything more causes problems. You were too pretty for me, Alex. You still are too pretty for me, Alex."

"If your answer to me is 'no,' you need to supply a better reason than misquoting _Defending Your Life_. You don't even like romantic comedies." Alex responded.

"Well, technically, it's in the fantasy genre. But what I meant was, the entire time we were together, I was looking over my shoulder waiting for the other shoe to drop. When were you going to realize your mistake, and get with someone smarter, or richer, or taller, especially taller? Then you did. And I can't get it out of my head that it will happen again. No one as wonderful as you, in your right mind, would stay with me."

"Morgan, honey. I'm not in my right mind. I'm hopelessly in love with you. Always have been. And the last three years of dating handsome, rich jerks has only made me love you more," Alex said, her hand now caressing Morgan's cheek, as a tear dripped from her eye.

Morgan blushed, briefly. But as his blush faded, his look of despair and exasperation returned. "Alex, I'll always care about you, love you. But, despite what the movies say, love sometimes isn't enough. If I can get over my issues, and I say _'if,' _we'd still have big issues. You still want kids, Alex."

"So do you, Morgan. . . or at least you did, three years ago."

"Yeah, I want little rugrats. But . . ."

"Your swimmers?" Alex asked, her tone conveying sympathy.

"More like my floaters. If they could swim I wouldn't have this problem," Morgan answered, his tone somber, "you know, it's ironic. Our horrible fights over having kids. Then, by the time we both want them, I learn I can't have them."

"Morgan, sweetheart, if that's your concern, there are options. . . Look, I'm not saying we move back in together tomorrow. I'm not saying our issues will magically be resolved with one Disney kiss. I'm just saying, will you have coffee with me sometime?" Alex asked.

"Aren't we having coffee now?" Morgan answered, cracking a smile and taking a sip from the Dunkin Donuts medium container in his hand.

"Yeah, I guess we are," Alex responded, a big smile growing on her face.

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 10:15 p.m. Apartment of John Casey**

John Casey's television fluttered on, with the image of General Beckman gracing the screen.

"I apologize for the late hour, Colonel Casey, but are you able to speak briefly?" the General asked.

John Casey, dressed in pajamas and a t-shirt, ceased eating his microwaved Salisbury steak t.v. dinner and looked up.

"Here, General," he responded.

"I just had a rather disturbing call with Agent Cooper."

"What happened?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the specifics, unfortunately. I'll give you the short story, though. Despite her successes at getting Agent Pulaski, Chuck, back to functional status . . . I get the sense that she doesn't really understand him at all, or what makes him effective."

"His lady feelings?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"If that's the case, why not get rid of her, replace her?" Casey asked.

"I don't have enough for that, not yet. Remember, she's on loan to us. I don't have the control over her that I would with real NSA. Besides, she's made tremendous progress so far."

"So what do you want me to do?" Casey inquired.

"Watch her. Make sure that her, um, methods, aren't impeding the mission."

"You mean, watch out for Chuck?"

"Precisely."

* * *

**May 23, 2022, 11:53 p.m., Casa Bartwoski-Woodcomb**

Ellie Woodcomb walked past Chuck's room. The door was ajar. Tiptoeing inside, she found her brother hunched over his computer desk, his face resting on his arms, sleeping soundly.

She went over to him, hoping she could nudge him awake and into bed. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of his computer screen. Lines and lines of computer code, utterly indecipherable to her. The phrase "Project Firestorm." And an instant message, sent thirty minutes ago, and left unanswered:

_Missile Commander: Hi Chuck! Are we secure? _

Glancing at the rest of the monitor, Ellie noticed old video surveillance footage taken of Sarah and Chuck together. It was playing in the upper-right quarter of the screen. She watched a few seconds of footage. It was . . . ordinary. On the monitor, Chuck and Sarah were lying on his bed in the old Echo Park apartment, sharing popcorn, and watching television. From the date-stamp, it looked like the video came from roughly seven months after they met. The video was of a cover date, one of many his brother and Sarah shared for about two years. Ellie looked back at the computer code. Although she couldn't understand it, she noticed that new code was being generated, automatically. It was almost as if the program, or portions of it, was writing itself. Then she noticed something very odd: Chuck hadn't activated his secure NSA log-in. That meant he had no access to government resources, and no government backups. It also meant that the government had no idea about what Chuck was doing. Chuck had, however, activated his own home-brew encryption package. Ellie knew that that meant: whatever this was, it wasn't NSA or CIA sanctioned.

Perched over her sleeping brother's shoulder, Ellie mumbled to herself:

"_**What the hell are you up to, little brother?"**_

* * *

_A/N: Tell me what you like & what you don't like. The story is close to being half-way done, and some major surprises are in store. _


	10. The Secret of Sarah's Death

**A/N: Still don't own Chuck. Still not making money from this. Still like reviews, follows, favorites, and PMs. **

* * *

**May 26, 2022 10:35 p.m.; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"Chuck, got a minute?" Ellie Woodcomb asked, peaking her face into Chuck's room. Chuck was sitting at his computer desk, typing away.

"Kind of beat, sis. Just finishing up some paperwork, and I'm about to turn in for the night. Can this wait?"

"Long day fighting for truth, justice, and the American way?" Ellie inquired.

"Not exactly. I wish. More like a long shift at the Buy More, followed by order reconciliations. We're gearing up for the big Memorial Day sale and Morgan needed my help getting things organized and keeping the Buy Morans in line," Chuck retorted, his eyes droopy.

"You know you don't have to keep doing that job. You've got a _real _job now. Plus, you've got two _other_ real jobs named Stephen and Diana that you don't spend anywhere near enough time with." Ellie responded, her eyes conveying a mix of exasperation with disappointment.

Chuck sighed, "I know. I've been trying, and I'm making progress with Diana. Stephen is another story. He doesn't forgive easily. As, for the Buy More, Morgan needs me. But I'll look into taking fewer shifts."

Chuck hesitated to say more. He knew that his answer, while not inaccurate, was incomplete. On some level, he needed the Buy More too. It was a place of refuge to him, where the problems were small, the work was easy, life was _normal_, and pleasant memories flooded his mind. For a few shifts a week, he didn't have to deal with the pressure of uncovering terrorist plots or stopping drug cartels. Nor, while Nerdherding, did he need to address the equally damning pressure of trying to reconnect with his children – the elder of whom seemingly wanted nothing to do with him. He could just sit back, fix computers, amuse himself at the antics of several extremely bright underachieving lunatics, and reminisce of much happier times. But he didn't want to tell Ellie all that. This late at night, or really anytime, he didn't want to face her disapproval for choosing something that took him away from Stephen and Diana. So he used what he called the _'Morgan excuse,'_ and not for the first time.

"You know, Morgan's over 40 now. We used to call that 'middle-aged.' He can take care of himself," Ellie retorted, to which Chuck nodded in faux agreement.

Ellie dithered a bit, instinctively bringing her index finger to her lip, debating whether to raise the next topic, before taking the plunge. "Chuck, while I've got your attention, there's something else Chuck that I wanted to discuss. Truth, Chuck, what's Project Firestorm? And who is 'Missile Commander'?"

Hearing Ellie's question, Chuck's eyes bulged out of his head, his body froze, and his hands involuntarily tensed.

"How did you. . .," Chuck began asking, but Ellie cut him off.

"A few days ago, I came in your room. You were asleep at your desk, I was going to nudge you to bed. The screen was still on. I saw everything. And I know it's not NSA or CIA-sanctioned. What have you got yourself into little brother?"

"It's not what you think. It's not dangerous," Chuck responded. "You remember I that I briefly mentioned running into Buy More Jeff, and how he designed an 'emotion reading' program?"

Ellie nodded.

"I got to thinking, if Jeff's program could identify and translate non-verbal cues in live video, could it do the same for surveillance footage?"

"Why would you want that?" Ellie asked, her tone displaying a mix of curiosity and confusion.

"Sarah. Her death. I've always had questions. . . . I never quite bought that it was completely natural. We had too many enemies. And, as much as I loved my wife, she always had secrets. I was hoping Jeff's program might give me some answers. So I modified it to read the surveillance footage we have of Sarah. To see if there were any non-verbal cues I missed, which might give me some inkling of what happened . . . whether someone might have done this to her."

"Chuck, what's past is past. Is it really worth your time dredging this stuff up again?" Ellie pleaded.

"I needed to know sis."

Ellie looked at her little brother skeptically. His wife kept secrets, but she knew Chuck did as well. And his story didn't quite add up. "Chuck, I'd like to believe you, that this is all that you're doing but, um, your explanation doesn't make any sense – when I came in, the footage being played was of the two of from over 10 years ago. None of that is going to be relevant to how she died."

Chuck noticed his sisters concern, and sought to address it. "Ordinarily, you'd be right. The program usually translates emotions from live video. It doesn't need to study targets. But Sarah was, um, complicated."

Ellie agreed, her visible skepticism declining: "Complicated. That she was."

Chuck explained: "What I meant was, she was a spy and, before that, a trained con artist. She was good at hiding her feelings, and putting on a show. It took me_ years _before I could figure out when the inner Sarah didn't match the surface Sarah. Jeff's program needed a similarly large sample. That's why we exposed it to all of the surveillance footage, hoping that – with enough data - the program would be able to assess what's out-of-the-ordinary and what's not."

"And Missile Commander? I take it, it's not some super-secret spy thing with ICBMs?"

Chuck laughed, then responded: "It's Jeff, he's been helping me. The handle is an homage to his old video game prowess."

Ellie crossed her arms, took a few steps back-and-forth, and pondered her little brother's revelations. Finally, she spoke: "So all of this, the late-night computer sessions, the self-writing code, the sneaking around – this is all just some crazy investigation into Sarah's death?"

"Pretty much. And that look of disapproval on your face is why I didn't tell you,_ 'Chuck, don't waste time living in the past.' 'Chuck, no good can come of this_,'" Chuck responded, waving his hands in the air for emphasis, "And the thing is, you're right. . . But it's something I needed to do anyway."

Ellie stepped back, and thought about what her brother said. On the surface, it was directed at her. _'Have I really been that critical of him?, Is that what he really thinks?_' she thought to herself. She didn't like the answers she came up with. That said, thinking deeper, she sensed that some of Chuck's antagonism came from his own self-hatred, his dislike of his own inability to let go and move on. And, though she had tried, she didn't know how to help him with that. Acting on instinct, she did what first came into her mind: she wrapped her brother in her arms and gave him a tight bear hug.

"Chuck, if I've made you think that, I'm sorry. If you need answers, get them. For your own sake. I'm here for you, always" Ellie responded, pulling her brother into an even deeper hug.

"Thanks, sis." Chuck responded.

Reluctantly, Ellie pulled away from the hug, but kept her hands grasped in his. "Can you tell me, have you made progress?," she now entreated.

Chuck sighed again. He swung his computer chair about 90 degrees to the left, turning away from Ellie, and towards his screen. "Yes, but not like I expected. Let me show you something," he commented. For about 90 seconds, Chuck clicked through various screens, while Ellie watched patiently. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. "Ellie, watch this, and give me your thoughts."

Ellie intently watched four minutes of surveillance footage. The neurologist recognized the symptoms. "Oh my god. Chuck, when was this taken?," she asked.

"Look at the bottom of the screen. October 2018, about six months before she died. I was visiting you in Chicago at the time, because of your operation. . . . Now, watch this."

Again, Ellie watched the screen, this time for about six minutes. The footage was from February 2019, just two months before Sarah died.

"And now this," Chuck said, directing her to three minutes of footage just a day before her accident.

"They are . . ." Ellie began saying, but didn't finish as Chuck cut her off.

"I know. Jeff's program. It wasn't designed as a medical diagnosis tool. But, somehow, it figured it out. Transient ischemic attacks, otherwise known as 'mini-strokes.' All of them. Basically harmless by themselves, but a warning that a major stroke could be coming. How did I not see it? Was I that bad a husband?"

"Chuck, you were in Chicago for the first one. From what I can tell, you weren't home for either of the other two. And TIAs can pass so easily and resolve so completely that people may not know they had one, or may think that it was no big deal. Sarah was a proud woman, and she didn't always go to a doctor when she should have. She's not alone. Only about 3% of people seek medical attention after a TIA," the neurologist lectured.

"There's more, Ellie. We both had our DNA sequenced by the CIA several years ago. I looked at her electronic personnel file, and her results had been automatically updated with new research. Turns out she had a genetic variant that increases the risk of stroke by something like 40%."

"So what you're saying is. . ."

Chuck exhaled, then answered: "The evidence is pretty clear: no poison or toxin is going to go undetected for months, let alone cause a string of TIAs. There was no grand conspiracy. There's no bad guy to track down and exact revenge upon. No moment where I'll get to swoop in, waive a sword, and triumphantly declare to the six-fingered man, '_Hola, me llamo Inigo Montoya, tu mataste a mi padre, preparate a morir_.'"

"Huh?" Ellie asked, confused.

"Sorry. For some reason, a complete, bad Spanish dub of _The Princess Bride _got dumped into the new Intersect. Part of the 'cultural programming.' I think it was some Intersect programmer's idea of a joke."

"Huh," Ellie said, still confused.

"I mean, I suppose the faulty intersect and all the head trauma she's suffered could have exacerbated her genetic predisposition. But there's nothing I can do now about that now, no wrong I can rectify." Chuck added, almost in addendum.

"Was all this helpful then, little brother? Do you think you finally got closure?"

"I suppose," Chuck whispered, his voice devoid of energy.

"And maybe, just maybe, you can now move forward?" Ellie pleaded.

"Ellie, on that subject, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Chuck queried.

"What is it?"

"Your plan, when she lost her memories, to give them back to her by loading photos and stuff onto the Intersect, would it have worked?" Chuck probed, resonating despair.

"Chuck, this isn't productive. What's done is done."

"Please just humor me, would it have worked?," Chuck asked.

Ellie took a moment to think, then answered. "Knowing what we know now, yes, it probably would have. We now know that her memories weren't gone, just blocked. As you know, whenever the faulty Intersect pulled information or a skill, it didn't pull information intact. As a by-product, it scattered small fragments of data across her brain, a form of 'waste code.'"

"Ellie, you can say 'shit code,' the kids are asleep. I mean, that's what it was, excrement from the data pull process."

"Right, anyway, the _'shit code'_ was littered throughout her brain, fogging up her ability to retrieve memories. And Quinn had somehow figured out a way, we still don't know how, to concentrate, to dump. . . all that shit into five years' worth of memories," Ellie recalled.

"So the photos, videos?"

"Yes, I suppose they could have helped her brain cut through the fog, allowing her access to the real memories buried underneath." Ellie answered, remaining unsure of why her brother wanted to know all this.

"And if those memories weren't just buried, but erased?" Chuck asked.

Ellie took another moment to contemplate Chuck's hypothetical, then responded: "Then all the photos, videos, documents couldn't have done a damn thing. At most, they could have conveyed basic knowledge: events happened. But the atmosphere, the smells, the touches, the feeling of time passing, the associated emotions, the minutia of every detail experienced . . . you can't get that from a photograph or a video. It's like the difference between seeing a photograph from the Battle of the Bulge, and actually having fought in it like Grandpa did. No matter what we look at or read, none of us can ever truly know what he felt, what he saw, what he experienced."

"Thanks, sis," Chuck said, sighing.

"Now Chuck, why are you asking me all this? It can't do any good. Besides, thankfully, my plan wasn't necessary. She got back her memories eventually, over time, and largely by herself. Her brain, just from living life, being exposed to triggers, it cut through the shit code."

"You helped. You found and removed the last bits of shit code . . ." Chuck noted. He had always been grateful to Ellie for that, for bringing Sarah from about 90% back to her old self again.

"Maybe, but my point remains." Ellie said.

"I've just been going over what I did wrong. Sure, my wife slowly returned to me. But it took almost a year. If we had gotten the 50 or 60 years due us, maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. We didn't. We had such little time, so few good years. And I keep thinking, _'how could I have gotten more_'?"

"Chuck, that isn't healthy."

"I know," Chuck said, sighing again, "And I know, from raising me, to bringing Sarah all of the way back, to going to extraordinary lengths for me and my children the past three years. . . I know I owe you so many debts that I can never repay."

Ellie gave him another big hug, and spoke. "Chuck, if you want to repay me, do this: stop obsessing about the past. Find a way to connect with Stephen. Start dating someone, anyone. Move on."

"Ok, Ellie. I'll try. . . I owe you that much."

Ellie softly squealed with joy, kissed her brother on the forehead, then slowly turned around and left the room.

As Ellie left the room, Chuck smiled. He recalled what John Casey had said to him a few weeks ago:

_"You're a good liar, Bartowski._"

* * *

**A/N: A rather quiet chapter, but some big stuff will be coming up in the next few weeks. . .**

As always, tell me what you like, what you don't. Let me know where you think this story is going. Also please note that I've made some very minor, typographical changes to previous chapters.


	11. The Sultan and the Rabbi

Previously on _Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

Chuck_: "I'm not sure, but things don't add up. I may need to get close to her, closer than I would like." _

_Ellie: "Start dating someone, anyone. Move on." _

"_You're a good liar, Bartowski." _

_**A/N: I still don't own Chuck, I'm still not making any money off this. I still like reviews.**_

* * *

**June 13, 9:05 a.m., Castle**

The previous three weeks passed quickly and quietly for the revamped Team Intersect. Chuck Bartowski, _the Analyst_, began notching an impressive string of successes from flashes off of daily reports. Since being rescued with Morgan from the Estonian kidnappers, his flashes uncovered a human smuggling ring in Texas, stopped a Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) attack against a Philippine minister, and identified an Afghani hiding place for a cell of ex-Islamic State militants. But none of his flashes concerned any activity near Los Angeles. So while Chuck the Analyst excelled, Charlie Pulaski, _the Agent_, and his team had nothing to do. This led to the inevitable gripes from Abby about shifts at the Buy More, and from Casey about boredom.

"Can't bad guys hold conventions in L.A. like they used to? I'm tired of sitting on my aging ass," he cracked, while going over paperwork in Castle.

"Maybe they've wised up," Chuck remarked, "But since we have the downtime, when are we going to get a _real _cover instead of hanging out in the offices of an _actual _abandoned financial services firm?" To which, Casey just grunted. It had been a sore point for all of them, but the discussions went in cycles. None of them wanted to attract undue attention to their resumed operations by restarting Carmichael Industries. And Chuck's "cover" as a depressed widower working at the Buy More provided excellent camouflage. But, at the same time, they needed a secure, private place to meet civilians – tranqing people and hauling them down to Castle was now a "no go." Without any better ideas, the dusty old offices of Fielding Financial remained the default among poor options.

Just then, Casey's phone chimed. "Message from Beckman. Briefing in 30 minutes. Get Abby over here," Casey stated.

"What about Morgan?" Chuck asked.

"She didn't say anything. I think the troll can sit this one out."

A half-hour later, Chuck, Casey, and Abby assembled in front of Castle's monitors, which sprung to life displaying the image of Gen. Diane Beckman.

"Thanks for coming in team," the General announced.

"Sure, General, what's this about?" Casey inquired, his voice perking up with the hope of action.

"There are two items on the agenda. First, I wanted an update on the Asset's program. Have we made progress?"

Casey and Abby both lowered they eyes, trying to cover up their shared disappointment at the General's inquiry.

Chuck, however, responded in lively fashion: "I've been working with Jeff to debug the software, and to implement certain improvements. We still expect to be ready to ship by September."

"Improvements?," the General quizzed, "We're conducting a money-laundering laundering sting, Agent Pulaski, not looking to win a prize."

Chuck's excitement grew, as he responded: "We _were _conducting a money-laundering sting, General. But I've reviewed Jeff's code . . . it has more potential than we first assumed. I don't think even Jeff realizes what exactly he designed. The software. It _learns_. More than that, we can _teach _it."

"To what end, Agent Pulaski?," the General queried.

"General, there's an old phrase: _'Do not awaken or arouse love until it pleases_,'" Chuck responded.

"Is that Nerd Code for something, Chuck?" Casey interjected.

"Sorry, damned Intersect programming," Chuck explained, "What I meant was, General, in all the years we've worked together, how many leaks, rogue agents, rebel intelligence factions, and outright traitors have we come across?"

The General grunted. "Too many. Seems like we had a different one each week."

"And how many times has my team let you down?," Chuck retorted.

"Almost never."

"So please, give us some leeway General. If I reveal too much now . . . it would take only one leak for the whole thing to come crashing down." Chuck replied, his tone conveying that he was "telling" the General more than "asking" her.

"Alright. I trust you. . . to a point. But I expect to be read in as soon as you deem it possible." General Beckman answered.

"Understood, General."

With that, General Beckman shifted gears, "Onto the second topic," she said, as Casey's and Abby's ears both perked up, "As you all are well aware, the Costa Gravan elections are next week, through which Alejandro Goya's nephew, President Ricardo Goya, will win a second term."

"Um. . . I thought you said the elections hadn't happened yet. How do you know the outcome?" Chuck asked.

"This is Costa Gravas, Chuck. Use that delightfully brilliant brain of yours. . . In any event, the Government of Costa Gravas has formally invited you and Colonel Casey to attend the July 4th inaugural ball as guests of state." General Beckman responded.

"Like heck I'm spending America's birthday prancing around some Communist shindig," interjected Casey.

"As I was saying, Colonel, each of you will be entitled to bring a plus one. Before the ball, President Emeritus Goya will present each of you with a medal, declaring you Heroes of the Glorious People's Revolution, in honor of services that you performed for the State a little more than 10 years ago."

Casey gave off a deep, long grunt. "I think I'm going to puke," he said.

"Colonel Casey, as you know, agents sometimes must perform unpleasant tasks. In this case, it's undertaking a diplomatic function that neither you nor Agent Pulaski is particularly well-suited for," the General exclaimed.

"I'm with Casey here, why are we attending a party in honor of some two-bit dictator?" Abby inquired.

"Because we don't get to choose our neighbors. Because friendly relations with Costa Gravas are within our national interest. And because Ricardo Goya has, to some extent, moved his nation in a positive direction," the General lectured.

"Such as?" Chuck quizzed.

"Legalizing private land ownership, encouraging foreign investment, somewhat reducing the persecution of dissidents. No one is going to pretend that he's George Washington. But, on balance, both the United States and the people of Costa Gravas are better off with a Pinochet instead of a Chaves. And we want to encourage that. Besides, there's a sub-mission in Costa Gravas of vital importance to the United States," the General conveyed.

"Finally," Casey and Abby responded, simultaneously, in a hushed tone.

"This is Sultan Soobaq, of the Sultanate of Salalah." An image appeared on screen a dignified Arab man in his mid-60s, dressed in a blue and gold tunic, wearing a bejeweled purple turban.

Chuck flashed, a giant gusher of information from the Intersect flooding his mind and pounding on his skull.

"Are you ok, Agent Pulaski?" the General inquired.

"Yes, just give me a moment . . . it was a lot of information to process."

"I'm not surprised. Sultan Soobaq has been in power for over 40 years. Perhaps you would like to enlighten the class, or should I continue?" General Beckman asked.

"Go on, General . . . I'd rather recover."

"In 1980, Sultan Soobaq overthrow his father in a bloodless coup. Since then, he has ruled as the unchallenged absolute monarch of the gulf Sultanate. Other than his distaste for democracy, he has been a remarkably progressive, benevolent, and successful ruler. He took what was essentially a small fishing kingdom and turned it into an economic powerhouse. Under his rule, schools, hospitals, roads, and a modern communications system were put in place. Women's rights have significantly improved, freedoms of speech and the press have been expanded, and religious minorities have enjoyed significantly increased tolerance."

Chuck, Casey, and Abby looked on in silence, wondering where the General was going.

"Unfortunately, for his part of the world, anyway, Sultan Soobaq is homosexual. This is well-known in certain circles. But it could easily destabilize his regime if it became public knowledge. That brings us to this man. . ."

An image of an olive-skinned man appeared on the screen, wearing the black suit, white shirt, and black fedora favored by Israel's Ultra-Orthodox Jews. Once again, Chuck flashed as waves of data crashed along the shores of his brain. The General gave him a moment to recover, then continued her briefing.

"This is Rabbi Meir Abulafia, a Knesset Member for the Mizrahi Torah Guardians Party, and Israel's Deputy Foreign Minister. A native of Salalah, where his father served as Chief Rabbi of the Sultanate's small Jewish community, Rabbi Abulafia grew up with the Sultan. They were close friends. Then they became more than friends. In early 1974, the Sultan's father found his son's diary, which contained very explicit references to his relationship with young Meir. Furious, then-Sultan Omar exiled Meir, his father, and their entire family from the country – using public anger over the 1973 Arab-Israeli War as a cover story."

"I appreciate the history lesson General, but what does this all have to do with Costa Gravas?" Chuck inquired.

"I'm getting there, Chuck. The Sultan and Rabbi Abulafia maintained contact throughout the years via letter. It seems that they physically _'reconnected' _during a United Nations conference last fall. The Costa Gravans were spying on the Israelis and videotaped the encounter."

"Why was Costa Gravas conducing espionage on Israel?" Chuck asked, puzzled.

"Chuck, you should know by now, everyone spies on everyone. In any event, we believe someone within the Costa Gravan government intends to sell the video to dignitaries visiting during the Inaugural ball. The Iranians are particularly interested. If the video became public, it could lead to the overthrow of a key American ally, or worse." the General explained.

"I don't get it. Shouldn't this be what we're encouraging? Tolerance? Acceptance? Friendly Arab-Israeli relations?" Chuck asked.

"Sure, and if I sprinkle pixie dust on your forehead, I'm sure you'll fly off to Never Never Land. Use your brain, Bartowski, and think of the region the Sultan lives in." Casey retorted.

"I'm forced to agree with Colonel Casey. Regardless our personal feelings on the matter, attitudes in Salalah are different. There is a reason why the Sultan has stayed in the closet, and even kept up certain persecutions of his gay community. Further, while a video of a same-sex encounter by itself could lead to the Sultan's overthrow, the circumstances of this _'meeting'_ are even worse from a public relations perspective. His choice of a Jewish, Israeli partner is, to put it mildly, less than ideal given his people's hostility towards Israel. Additionally, if our sources are to be believed," the General hesitated, then continued, "the video contains footage of the Sultan wearing racy lingerie."

Casey and Chuck muffled laughs, picturing the dignified Sultan depicted on Castle's monitor prancing around in red underwear. Both caught themselves, embarrassed at their amusement.

"Again, our personal indifference to the Sultan's preferences aside, the optics look awful given region's unique sensitivities," the General conveyed.

Chuck grasped the issue: "He would look like he compromised himself, in an especially subordinate position, before a Minister of what his people consider to be an enemy state."

"Precisely. That is why both the Salalans and the Israelis have asked us to obtain the video, destroy all copies of it, and keep it out of the hands of the Iranians or anyone else," General Beckman instructed.

"Understood, General. We'll get it done," Casey declared.

"A word of caution. You are going in, as yourselves, under diplomatic cover as honored guests of the Costa Gravan regime. We can't afford any '_incidents_.'"

"No gun play, General?" Casey inquired.

"Not unless absolutely necessary. And it _won't _be necessary, do you understand?"

Casey grunted.

"There's one more thing. Your invitations entitle both of you to a plus one. You will each take advantage of this. The more boots on the ground, the better. Abby will go with Chuck, _as a couple_," the General stated, stressing the "couple" part. She continued: "Chuck, I know this isn't your preference, but it's the most believable cover. Most people aren't going to fly a family friend or a second cousin to Costa Gravas."

Chuck looked frustrated, as if the General was instructing him to clean his room and take out the trash, , but understood.

"And for me, General?" Casey inquired.

"That's up to you. Are you on speaking terms with Ms. Ortega?," the General asked, referencing Casey's most recent girlfriend with ties to the intelligence community.

Casey grunted, "Not presently, General."

"If that's the case, I suggest Carina Miller," Chuck interjected, "The Colonel and Ms. Miller have known each other for over a decade, which will facilitate playing a convincing cover. . . . Besides, we owe Ms. Miller a favor. I know she has been looking for an 'in' to Costa Gravas for some time. The republic is not friendly with the D.E.A., and she's been wanting to reestablish contact with the authorities there."

"Very well, see if Ms. Miller is available. Dismiss. . ."

Chuck cut her off. "General, sorry to interrupt, but there's one thing I don't understand. . . The Sultan overthrew his father back in 1980, while he was still a very young man. Why didn't he invite Rabbi Abulafia back to his country then? According to the Intersect, the Sultan has engaged in a number of covert _'relationships_,' but none them reached the level of affection he expressed in his teenage diary. Even closeted, why not reconnect 42 years ago?"

Intrigued by Chuck's interest, the General began answering "By the time the Sultan took power, Rabbi Abulafia was already married with a small child. Besides. . ."

Before she could finish, Casey interjected: "The Sultan knew his duty. To his country, to his people. He couldn't let anything that interfere with that. Not everyone pines and whines about being alone, Bartowski. Love, lady feelings . . . whatever you call it. Some things are more important. The Sultan made his choice, and his people are better off for it. I respect him for it. I made a similar one, more than once."

Chuck nodded. He got Casey's point.

"As I was saying, dismissed." General Beckman declared.

With that, Casey got up from his seat and left the room. Chuck was following him, when Abby approached and stopped him.

"Hi, have a minute?" she asked.

"Sure."

"I'm thinking . . . um, about our assignment. I don't think we're ready for this. If we're going to play the part of a couple, we're need to be convincing . . . especially at a diplomatic function."

"I understand," Chuck replied.

Hearing his response, but not quite believing it, Abby impulsively reached up and kissed Chuck on the lips. Startled, Chuck shivered, then jumped back about six inches.

Abby's expression showed that she got the reaction from him that she was expecting. She spoke, "You may _understand_, but you're not ready. . . the way you just responded, you might as well have been a twelve-year-old boy who had never kissed a girl."

"I was just surprised, that's all."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter. . . you're not ready."

"So what do you suggest?"

"We need to go on a date. The two of us. Alone. Before Costa Gravas. Preferably more than one," she said.

Chuck signed, then nodded his head, and softly said "Ok."

* * *

**A/N: After a few somewhat quiet chapters, a big chapter is coming up. I thought about condensing this chapter with the next one, but the next one is, um, complicated. ****Figured I'd get this one published quickly. **

**As always, I love reviews & private messages. Also, there's now a Chuck Fanfiction Facebook Group. You can discuss this story there.**


	12. Chuck vs The Midseason Finale Wham!

Previously on _Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

Chuck_: "I'm not sure, but things don't add up. I may need to get close to her, closer than I would like."_

_Ellie: "Start dating someone, anyone. Move on."_

_Abby: __"We need to go on a date. The two of us. Alone. Before Costa Gravas. Preferably more than one," she said._

_Chuck: "Ok."_

**A/N: I don't own Chuck, or these characters. I'm not making money from this. I like reviews.**

* * *

**June 16, 2022, 6:25 p.m. Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"Which shirt? The red, or the blue"? Chuck asked, holding up two otherwise identical polo shirts in front of a full-length mirror.

Ellie, standing next to him, squealed with joy: "You have a date. Finally. I'm so excited! So happy you're doing this! And definitely the blue."

"It's not a date. It's preparation for a cover. Kind of like a cover date. And why the blue?"

"You find her attractive, right? Blue is your color," Ellie coached.

"Yes, of course. I'm not blind. She's an attractive woman in the objective sense. But so are lots of women. So are you. I'm not going to date you. I kind of like the red."

"Chuck, you're rambling. That's a good sign. You're adorable when you ramble. And I've seen the way she looks at you. Even you aren't that dense. The blue shows more serenity, more confidence."

"I'm not, I mean, I know. Really, the blue?" Chuck asked.

"Yes," his sister responded.

"Fine the blue. But it's not a date."

"You're having dinner together. She's single. You're single. You're attracted to each other. It's a date," Ellie pronounced.

Chuck replied defiantly, "It's not a date. I don't think of her that way. I'm not a chimp, or Jeff. I don't jump into bed with every attractive woman who shows interest in me."

"Chuck, I'm not saying sleep with her. I'm saying it's a date," Ellie reiterated.

"What if I don't want it to be? What if I don't want to date her? What if I just want a cover date? Ever think of that, Ms. Smarty-Pants?," her younger brother protested.

"If you don't want to date her, don't. But tonight is a date. . . . Call it a cover date, if you want. Not much of a difference to me. I mean . . . it's not like the first time you went on a cover date it led to marriage or something." Ellie recounted

"Shut up," Chuck said, playfully dismissing her last remark.

"Now what's this cover you're preparing for?" Ellie prodded.

"I can't tell you much. But we're going to Costa Gravas together for the Fourth. On _business_."

"Chuck, that's family time. Diana was really excited to see the fireworks with you."

"I know." Chuck sighed. When Beckman mentioned July 4th, he had intellectually grasped what she meant. But the full force of what it entailed just hit him.

"Can't you move it?" Ellie inquired.

"You know it doesn't work like that. This is what I signed up for. What _you _signed me up for," Chuck answered.

"I know. It's just. . . the mission. . . It's not anything dangerous, right?"

"No. I'm too old and weak for those kinds of missions. If anything, it's diplomatic. Casey and I are getting medals," Chuck responded. _'Not quite a lie,' he thought to himself, 'just not the whole truth.'_

"Then why don't we all go? Devon and I haven't been there in over 10 years, the kids never have been."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, but I'll ask Abby to get her take."

"Fine. Ask her. _During your date_."

"I'm not going to win with you, am I?," Chuck protested.

"No, little brother, you never have."

* * *

**June 16, 2022, 7:15 p.m., Restaurante El Gringito Gordito y Perezosito**

"This is the place," Abby said, pulling up her car in front of a Mexican-themed restaurant.

"Mexican, huh?" Chuck asked.

"I read your file. . . you like this kind of food, right?" Abby queried.

"Yeah, it's just, weird memories associated with it, on dates, you know?"

Abby stammered, somewhat embarrassed. "I'm sorry. . . I didn't know. Would you like to go somewhere else?

"No, it's fine. I'm fine. Let's just go in." Chuck replied.

June 16, 2022, 7:25 p.m., Restaurante El Gringito Gordito y Perezosito

"Your seats, Senor & Senorita," the waitress said, escorting Chuck and Abby to a corner table, covered in a multi-colored fake-Aztec fabric. Chuck scanned the room, noticing a Mariachi band playing in the opposite corner.

"Can I start you off with a bottle of the house red?" the waitress asked.

"Sure, whatever." Chuck replied. As the waitress departed, Chuck turned his attention towards Abby.

"Thank you for doing this. Taking care of everything. I know it's your job but, it's been awhile." Chuck said to her, his tone oddly permeating affection.

"Have you gone on a date since. . . . um, you know," Abby asked.

"Once. Maybe. Depends on whether it counts. Last summer, Carina invited me out for dinner to catch up. As old friends. But I got the sense that she wanted more."

"Why do you say that?"

Chuck blushed. "Well, um. During dinner, she um, gave me an offer."

"An offer?" Abby asked, brimming with curiosity.

Chuck stumbled, trying to formulate the words, his cheeks red with discomfort. "I don't know how exactly to put this. She, um, told me that if I was lonely, or needed companionship, or needed to put my troubles aside, or just needed a release, that I could go fuck her brains out. But that's just Carina. She might as well have just said 'hello.'"

Abby stared, first in surprise. But, slowly, her stare turned seductive. The tip of her tongue emerged, and touched her upper lip.

"Chuck," she said, stressing the "k" in "Chuck."

"Um. . ." Chuck's eyes peaked up.

"I'll make you the same offer," she said, her penetrating green eyes affixed to his.

"If you are lonely," she added, licking her lips.

"Or need companionship," she continued, slipping off her left shoe.

"Or need to put your troubles aside," she went on, her toes now caressing Chuck's lower leg.

"Or just need a release," she said, drawing out the word "release," so that her lips made almost a hiss, while a small grin grew on her face.

"Then you can go fuck Carina Miller's brains out!" Abby burst out laughing, uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, I was trying to keep a straight face. That's sooooo not me."

"It's not me either," Chuck responded, laughing back.

"I know, I read your file." Abby said.

"So you have me at a disadvantage. Your personnel file, either there's not much there or it was heavily redacted. I've been working with you for two months and I don't know a thing about you."

"Have you asked me?" Abby inquired.

"Um, no…"

"Then ask. I'm an open book. Some agents are cagey about their past. I'm not," Abby replied, instinctively making an 'open hands' gesture as she spoke.

Chuck pondered her offer, then spoke: "Alright, what's your real name?"

"Abigail Cooper." Abby replied.

Chuck blew raspberries, dismissively.

"No, really. That's my name," Abby reiterated, "It's been my name since I was 9 years old. Since I came to this country. My birth name, well, let's just say that you couldn't pronounce it. Not unless you flashed on Sorani." _Sorani_, also known as Central Kurdish.

"Mmmph?" Chuck muttered.

"I was born in Sulaymaniyah."

"In Iraq?" Chuck asked.

"In Kurdistan," Abby corrected, then went on: "Some agents change their names to protect their family, their friends. That's not an issue with me. My story . . . it's not a happy one."

"If you want to share, I'm here, but no pressure. . . ." Chuck said, this time fighting a flinch to reach out to grab her hand.

"Well, ok, here it goes. In 1991, after the Gulf War, the United States, President Bush, the first one, called for an uprising against Saddam. My family listened. My mother, my older sister, my mom's whole family, died. Were killed. Most of my father's family also. I had just learned to walk. I have no memory of them, of my mother."

Chuck's mouth was agape, unable to form words, before he eventually settled upon an inadequate, "I'm sorry." Abby looked at him with understanding, then continued.

"I think that might be why they sent me here, to you. They thought I could connect, with you, with your family, your children. That I'd understand them. . . . Anyway, my father survived, as did his mother and brother. My father had money, connections. When I was nine years old, he got a visa. We came here and settled in suburban Philadelphia."

"The Phillies t-shirt?" Chuck asked.

"You remembered! How sweet of you. Anyway, I grew up comfortable, upper-middle class. The rest of my family stayed behind. My father could have gotten them out, but they were stubborn, they loved their home. My father's brother, my uncle, had two sons. Both joined the Peshmerga, the Kurdish militia. Both died fighting ISIS back in 2016. My uncle was killed less than a year later by the Iraqi government, for his role in a disastrous independence referendum."

"And your father, your grandmother?"

"Both dead. My father died seven years ago, of natural causes. My grandmother died in 2018, about a year after my uncle. It was her death that prompted me to join our, um," Abby scanned the room to see whom might be listening in, before muttering the word "employer."

"How so?" Chuck asked.

"You know I worked as a family therapist, right? I don't know why they would redact that."

Chuck nodded affirmatively.

"Well, I found myself a family therapist without a family. I was lonely. Unable to do my job. More than that, I was bored. And I wanted to do something. To help. Most of my family died senseless deaths. I needed to do something, anything, that would give their lives meaning. Almost on a lark, I joined up."

"You don't blame the U.S. for anything? For abandoning your people?"

"I don't, no. My family knew what it was getting into. But it's funny you should ask that. Our _employer _worries about it. I'm an American citizen. I have been ever since I was a teenager. I volunteered. But they still don't trust me."

"What do you mean?" Chuck inquired.

"I'm a native speaker of both Sorani and Iraqi Arabic. When I got out of the Farm, I assumed I'd be sent back to that part of the world. Get an opportunity to use those skills, to take out the enemies of the United States. It hasn't worked out that way."

"Why?"

"Our employer. It took me on, trained me. But it has always had doubts about my politics . . . my ethnicity . . . my loyalties. So, instead of doing something useful, something important. . . I got assigned to use my _other _skills," Abby said, her tone growing resentful.

"Huh?" Chuck queried, both curious and confused.

"A non-stop diet of seduction missions. Mostly in Latin America. Letting greasy thugs run their hands all over me, hoping to learn things."

Again, Chuck found himself at a loss for words.

"When I told you before that casual sex soooo wasn't me, I meant it. Before this job, I had only been with two people. Both very long-term relationships. My _third_, it was my first mission. It was supposed to just be light flirtation, to get some info. But _he_ had other ideas. Backup didn't arrive in time. It . . . it wasn't my choice. Since then, well, I've lost count."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what to say," Chuck said, utterly flummoxed.

"You don't have to say anything. It's nice, it's kind of you. That you are listening. I can see it in your chocolate eyes. You care. In our business, so few do. Again, you don't have to speak if you don't want to. But, if you want, you can ask what's on your mind."

"Which is?"

"Why didn't I just quit?"

"Alright, you got me." Chuck answered, not sure if that was actually on his mind. He was so taken aback by Abby's story, her past, her honesty. Things that he hadn't expected from her.

"Quit? And do what? No family. No loved ones. I'm not going to be a full-time therapist again. This is my life now." Abby answered.

"What about friends? Didn't you grow up with people? Don't you have a _Morgan_?" Chuck inquired.

"No friends but the mountains, Chuck," Abby responded.

"You have a friend now," Chuck said, his right hand now firmly grasping Abby's, without the need to hold back a flinch.

"I know. Alright, enough sad stories. This is supposed to be a date, kind of. Woo me." Abby asked, her lips now pouting towards her dinner partner.

"I don't know how." Chuck answered.

"What did I tell you before? Don't bullshit a bullshitter? I've read your file. You are the male master of seduction. Seduce me, Chuck."

"I don't know what you've read but it's wron. . ." Chuck contested, before Abby cut him off.

"Fine. Play it like that, Chuck. Why don't you try out some of those wonderful skills you have, the programming?"

"Alright. What would you like to hear?"

"How about Shakespeare, a sonnet?"

Chuck pulled up the Intersect's cultural knowledge, without a need for a flash, then spoke:

"Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks. Within his bending sickle's compass come. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

Abby smiled, and clapped. "Very nice, Chuck. Now, what about something Biblical? Song of Songs, maybe?"

Again, Chuck peered into his Intersect-aided long-term memory. But, this time, he needed a mini-flash before a sweet Mughrabi melody emerged from his lips, in perfect Hebrew, _"Apeha k'migdal ha'levanon, tsoofeh pneh damask."_

"What does that mean?" Abby asked?

Chuck flushed with embarrassment, the meaning of his words clarifying in his mind. "Um, I said, 'your nose is like a Tower of Lebanon, overlooking Damascus.'"

Abby shot him a perplexed look, before both of them burst out laughing.

"I think there are still some kinks to work out in the programming. Let me try again." Chuck said.

Chuck chanted again in Hebrew, pulling the same Mughrabi melody from the Intersect.

"Translation?," Abby asked after Chuck finished.

Chuck's embarrassment only grew, with his eyes now bulging out of their sockets. "Um. I said 'Blow upon my garden, that the spices may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat its precious fruits.'"

Abby volleyed back a look of pure befuddlement.

Chuck stopped the awkward silence. "Yeah, the more I think about it, that's, uhh, kind of gross. I feel gross just saying it. It's like something Jeff would say, if he was really drunk. In the programming, there are clearly some bugs to work ouuuuuttttt," Chuck said, breaking out into a full-flash as a man passed by their table.

"Chuck? Did you just flash? What is it?" Abby bombarded him.

"The man, who just passed. He's connected. Yasha Sokolov. Russian mob."

"What should we do? Approach him? Tail him?" Abby queried, her voice and body language reverberating with excitement.

"Nothing. We're here, having dinner. He's here, doing the same thing. He's mobbed up, sure. But if the police, the feds had anything solid on him, he'd be in jail. And our _employer_, this is domestic crime. This isn't what we do. Not usually."

"So we're just going to let a mob boss enjoy his dinner," Abby interrogated.

"Enjoy his dinner? That depends. . . . on the food, and the company," Chuck squeezed her hand again, and she smiled, before he continued "there's no other mission here tonight. But speaking of assignments, of Costa Gravas . . . I've been thinking, could my sister and the kids come? I mean, our role is primarily diplomatic. Remember Auntie Diane's instructions."

"Chuck, think clearly. Yes, if everything goes perfectly, there's no risk. But how often does everything go perfectly? Do you want your children to be exposed, vulnerable, if things go south?" Abby responded.

"No, I don't. You're probably right. Best to keep them safe, leave them behind," Chuck conceded.

"Ok, then. Now, how about another Intersect skill?," Abby interjected, "Maybe, for instance, you would like to dance?"

"We could, but if you're trying to test the Intersect, I have a better idea," Chuck replied.

With that, Chuck got up from the table and approached the restaurant's Mariachi band. Abby noticed Chuck handing a few bills to the lead singer. Chuck turned towards the other three members, and spoke "Mirame por los cambios" (watch me for the changes). With that, he immediately ripped into a ten-minute medley of Golden Age Mexican cinematic music from Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, and Luis Aguilar.

"Wow, I didn't know you had it in you," Abby said, standing up and giving her date a brief hug as he returned triumphantly to the table.

"I didn't either. But it was fun. Exhilarating. So, how's it going?"

Abby gave off a confused look.

"The wooing," Chuck clarified.

With that, Abby smiled.

* * *

**June 16, 2022, 9:45 p.m., outside Restaurante El Gringito Gordito y Perezosito**

Chuck and Abby left the restaurant and walked towards her car. As they approached, Abby turned towards Chuck, her lips no more than six inches from his own. She spoke to him, with the corner of her tongue once again poking out against her lips, "You know, if this was a real date, we're getting dangerously close to the point when you would kiss me good night?"

"Well, it's a good thing this isn't a real date." Chuck replied, his smile betraying his disinterest.

"Chuck. We need to. For the mission, the cover."

"You're going to force me to kiss you good night?" Chuck asked.

"Is that so bad?"

Chuck turned away, in disgust. After pausing for a second, he turned back towards her, and words sprung from his mouth: "Fine. Let's get it over with." With that, Chuck flashed, reached over, and kissed Abby passionately on the lips.

Abby reacted with horror. "Ughh. Disgusting. You taste like . . . um, Roan Montgomery. That lecherous old creep who taught seduction training at the Farm."

"Umm. . ."

"Chuck, did you have to flash to kiss me? Seriously?"

"Uhh, yeah. Um. I guess so."

"You're going to have to try again. When we're in Costa Gravas, or elsewhere, you can't look like you're having a stroke every time . . ."

Chuck backed off.

Abby realized her mistake, and her visage turned apologetic, "I'm sorry, poor choice of words. Really poor choice. Way to go, Abby. Open mouth, insert foot."

"It's fine. . . . really, I get what you mean. You're right. Let's give it another shot."

Chuck bent down, and kissed Abby again. This time tenderly, flirtatiously. Their tongues intertwining briefly, breaking off, then recommencing their dance. Abby took her arms, wrapped them around Chuck's neck, and brought him in closer to her, as their kiss deepened in passion.

Just then, they were interrupted. "Woo hoo Chuckster. Way to put _'her ass' _in _'harassment._' You offering her six inches of meat or a full foot long? But why, oh why can't you do that to #metoo," a tangy female voice called out. Chuck turned around. Five feet away, riding in a Nerd Herder, were two Nerd Herdlings, Gabriella "Gabby" Juárez and Winston "Winnie" Chen. Morgan sometimes referred to them as this generation's Jeff and Lester, but Chuck thought the comparison only went so far. Their antics never went much beyond sharing a bizarre sense of humor.

"Please identify if you have properly set up a master-slave relationship when connecting your units," Winnie added, faking a giggle.

"Um, hi to both of you. Abby and I were just..."

"On a service call, we know. But who were you servicing?" Gabby added, laughing hysterically. Winnie giggled together with her.

"Thus ends another Charles Bartowski date," Chuck pronounced, as Abby giggled beside him.

* * *

**_Two Months Before_, April 22, 2022, 8:35 p.m., Apartment of Abby Cooper**

"What do you mean, General, _'Handle Charles Carmichael_?'" Abby inquired.

"I understand that Agent Carmichael and Colonel Casey chose to read in on the Intersect, correct?," General Beckman asked.

"Yes."

"Here is something they probably didn't tell you. The first intersect, many years ago, was designed as an infiltration tool. Using the Intersect, we devised a way to implant a false personality in someone. . . in an agent. The idea was to establish the perfect cover. Someone who could penetrate deep into an enemy's operations, learn everything, and destroy the enemy from the inside," General Beckman explained.

"What happened, General?"

"It didn't work. The agent, once implanted, became his cover identity. Instead of taking down the enemy's operations, he took them over and became a formidable adversary."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Abby asked.

"The project failed. But the basic idea was sound. What we needed was a different approach. That's where the new Intersect comes in. Where you come in."

"I don't understand," Abby expressed.

"The new Intersect comes embedded with a wealth of cultural and religious knowledge – most of which Chuck won't have to flash on. The idea, the goal, is to give the agent the knowledge, the background, to _become _whatever we need the agent to be. . . to establish a perfect cover – while keeping the agent, the personality intact," General Beckman recounted.

"And Chuck?"

"Chuck will be the tip of the spear. We spent years foolishly trying to turn him into a particular kind of spy. But we overlooked how valuable his natural gifts are."

"The ability to use the Intersect?"

"Only in part. I'm actually speaking about his heart. His infectious spirit. As I'm sure you'll learn, anyone who spends time with him begins to like him. Not only that, they trust him. They become loyal to him. More than anything, those are the skills that a deep-cover operate needs. When you take Chuck's emotional intelligence, you add his creativity and hacking ability, and then you combine those skills with the new Intersect's knowledge and skill programming . . .," General Beckman said, only to have Abby cut her off:

"You get the Holy Grail of spycraft. An operative who can infiltrate seamlessly, rise quickly, turn enemy operatives to our side, either with or without their knowledge, acquire the motherload of necessary intelligence, and then bring down a target's entire operation," Abby set forth, her mind grasping the General's goals.

"Exactly. Not to mention that, with a decent suntan, he's ethnically ambiguous enough that he could pass for a light-skinned Arab, Kurd, Persian, Pashtun, whatever." General Beckman responded, smiling at her young report.

"Where do I come in, General?"

"All of these objectives depend upon Agent Carmichael being not only functional, but his old charismatic self. We need you, your background, to bring that out of him. Get him out of his shell. Emphasize with him. Repair him."

"General, with due respect, there's a flaw in your plan. From the files I've read, Agent Carmichael, Chuck, was a devoted family man. The more we succeed in bringing back the 'old Chuck," the less he's going to be willing to abandon them for dangerous deep-cover assignments." Abby explained.

"I'm aware of that," General Beckman replied, "It's why you get paid the big bucks, Abby. You're going to have to toe a thin line here: bring back the Agent Carmichael we need, not the Chuck we used to have."

"Understood. . ."

"There's one more thing, Abby. An incentive, if you will. No matter what kind of Agent Carmichael we bring back, Chuck is fundamentally needy man, emotionally. He'll need someone he can learn on, trust. And that includes when he goes undercover. A partner. You can be that partner. If you succeed, you'll never have to do that seduction garbage again. We'll let you do what you signed up to do. . . with Chuck."

* * *

**June 16, 2022, 11:45 p.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck sat, peering over his computer, typing code. His thoughts wondered back to the kiss. He felt disgust at it. But why? Was it the act of kissing? Or the recognition that a part of him enjoyed it? And Abby's "joke" earlier. . . he hated the nervousness, the familiar conscripting feeling in his pants and she spoke of an "offer," "companionship," and "release," her toes against his lower leg.

But why? He had kissed many other women since his wedding, and even one or two men. On missions. Seduction missions for men weren't common, but they happened. And, as his marriage to Sarah solidified, both of them grew comfortable with the other using skills, toying, flirting, to accomplish objectives. Their trust, their closeness, eventually obliviated all feelings of jealousy. . . they knew it was a game, they gave each other permission to play. Just then, it dawned on Chuck, what it was . . . this feeling, this unease. He kissed someone without Sarah's permission. He cheated. In a way. From a certain point of view, anyway. But just then, his thoughts were interrupted by an incoming message prompt on his computer.

_**Missile Commander: Hi Chuck, are we secure? **_

Reading the message, a large devilish grin grew on Chuck's face. He typed back:

_**Billy Batson: Hi Sarah. We're secure. And we have work to do.**_

* * *

**_A/N: _**

_The first of this story's big "WHAM" moments. I've been debating when to spring it, but I thought this was about the right time. Maybe it should have come later. Not sure. This is only my second fanfic, and my first long story. _

_We're now at what I'd sort of call the "mid-season finale" - except I don't plan on taking much of a break from writing. Please let me know what you think. It's certainly an unusual story: a sad situation, no true villains (and least not yet), __etc. But, I figured, why do what's already been done? _

_FN: Abby's reference "no friends but the mountains" comes from an old Kurdish adage – that "Kurds have no friends but the mountains." _


	13. The Best of Both Worlds

Previously on Chuck: The Echo of Memory

_WHAM! _

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this. 

* * *

**July 1, 2022, 7:45 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"Daddy, daddy, can I sing you a new song?" Diana called out from the breakfast table, as she spotted Chuck walking down the stairs towards the main floor. Seated next to her were Stephen, Peter, and Clara. Devon stood a few feet back, drinking coffee from a mug.

"Sure Princess."

"Mary ate a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary ate a little lamb whose flesh turned white in stew," Diana sang. Stephen started giggling.

"Hmm. . . not sure if I've heard that version before . . . is this something your brother taught you?" Chuck responded, turning his eye towards Stephen.

"Yup!" Diana answered proudly, "and in two days we're all going to see fireworks! Booom! Boooom!" she continued, changing the subject nonsensically, as she opened and closed her hands rapidly to mimic explosions.

"Yeah, um, about that. Daddy needs to work. But your Uncle Awesome and Aunt Ellie will be there," Chuck replied, guilt reeking from his face. Devon perked his head up briefly from his coffee. Diana's eyes turned downward, the shadow of disappointment overwhelming her prior smile.

"See D. What did I tell you?," Stephen interjected, "you can count your fingers, you can count your toes, but you can't count on the Turd Herder." Stephen then began singing "Turd. Herd. Herds the Turds. Turd. Herd. Herds the Turds," with Peter quickly joining in, the eight-year olds chanting in unison to the tune of "Bird is the Word."

Devon cut them off: "Enough. Stephen, show respect to your father. Peter, show respect to your uncle."

"It's alright, Devon." Chuck said, apologetically.

"No, it's not," Devon replied, continuing on "Stephen, Diana, adults sometimes have to work when they don't want to. I missed Christmas last year doing a shift at the hospital. I know your Daddy wants to be here. With you."

"Yeah, you skipped Christmas for an emergency heart surgery. What's the Turd Herder got to do? Swap out a hard drive?," Stephen responded sarcastically.

"Diana, I've got to go out of town for a short trip, but I'll make it up to you . . . I promise." Chuck answered.

"You going to the Buy More today? We need a new microwave." Devon asked.

"Wasn't planning on it. I have some paperwork upstairs on the computer, and then need to do a _thing_. But I can swing by if you need me to."

"Thanks, bro."

* * *

**July 1, 2022, 10:37 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck smiled as he turned off his computer monitor. _"Best of both worlds. Thank you, Sarah,_" he whispered in an undertone. Then, raising his voice, he called to his sister down the hall,

"Ellie, do you and Devon still both have off until the 5th?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason. Just be prepared."

* * *

**July 1, 2022, 12:07 p.m., Castle**

"Nothing, Casey, I've got nothing." Chuck said, seated at Castle's main conference room. Abby stood above him, her hand resting affectionately on his shoulder, with Carina by her side.

"You didn't flash on anyone? No magical Bartowski insight?" Casey responded from across the table, shooting Abby a glare as he noticed her gently massaging Chuck's left shoulder.

"I reviewed over a thousand files and photos of Costa Gravan officials. I flashed all the time. That's the problem. The flashes are the same. Who needs money, and will take it from seedy sources? Pretty much everyone. Who is shady and will sell government secrets? Again, pretty much everyone. This is Costa Gravas, remember. The Intersect isn't going to help us identify the seller." Chuck explained.

"What about the buyer?" Abby asked.

"The story's a little better, but we won't know till the ball. We know the Iranians are interested, as are the Saudis and a number of media organizations. The Sultan's young brother Abdullah is also rumored to be a buyer."

"Why the brother?" Abby inquired.

"He's maneuvering to succeed Soobaq. The Sultan is in his mid-60s and has no children. He's rumored to be in poor health. According to his will, the extended royal family is supposed to choose the next Sultan through _Shura_, the process of Islamic consultation. Supposedly, the family favors the Sultan's cousin, Rashid. Abdullah figures that if he can upset the apple cart and push the Sultan from power now, he might be able to circumvent the _Shura _and claim power as the next-in-line."

"Brothers. . ." Casey responded, grunting.

"Problem is, Abdullah won't be in Costa Gravas and we don't know who'll be representing him. We can also expect Soobaq and the Israelis to send 'unofficial' representatives trying to acquire the video . . . but we don't know who they will be either." Chuck said, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"So we got nothing? Works for me, it's been ages since we did good old-fashioned spy-work." Casey responded.

"Maybe not so old-fashioned," Chuck said, pondering the situation, "we have Jeff's program."

Chuck got up, walked across the room and opened a cabinet draw, taking out two pairs of Buddy Holly glasses. "It's the full-program, for our use. Unfortunately, we just have these two prototypes. It's not much, but it's something. We can use the glasses to scan for who's nervous, edgy - focus our attention on those people."

"We'll look ridiculous. . . You can wear these, Peggy Sue. I'm not going to." Casey responded.

"Don't be dense. We've got two pair. They are men's glasses."

"Besides, I actually know how to, um, _observe _people. Without some creep's glasses." Abby said.

"Same here." Carina remarked.

"Any worse than wearing spandex by a pool?" Chuck asked.

Casey grunted, expressing "ok" in the non-verbal manner of a less developed Hominid species.

Chuck mused, and had another thought, "Casey, do we still have J.J. around? Could we slip him through the diplomatic pouch?"

"Yes, we have him. And we should be able to get him through," Casey responded.

"Who's J.J.?" Abby asked.

"Wait here," Casey said as he got up and left.

Chuck explained: "J.J. J'onn J'onnzz. The Martian Manhunter. Survivor of the Martian genocide, with the power to read minds."

"Huh?" Carina and Abby said together.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Chuck asked, laughing.

Casey returned with a set of electronic diodes, which look like they hook up to the head.

Chuck clarified: "J.J. – it's our nickname for the device. He reads thoughts, translates them to images. Similar gadgets have been in the public domain for over a decade, but they've been used mostly as playthings for eggheads in universities. Our version is different, better."

Abby and Carina both sent off non-verbal looks of curiosity.

Chuck continued, "Let me explain. About six years ago, Ellie got a grant from the NSA. She did most of the work, handled the neurology stuff. I helped with the programming. We developed J.J. together. We used him as an interrogation device before . . . well, before everything went to hell and the team broke up."

"Similar to a lie detector?" Abby asked.

"Better," Casey answered, "Any idiot can fool a lie detector by clenching their sphincter. And a lie detector can't get info out of an unwilling perp. They'll just tell you to go to Hell. It's much harder to evade J.J., at least if you don't know what he's doing . . . . The perfect Bartwoski tool, get the information, avoid the torture. So squeaky clean it makes me ill."

"What about civil rights, illegal searches?" Abby asked.

"We're not the cops, and nothing J.J. tells us is admissible," Casey explained, "But J.J.'s good at finding ticking bombs. You ask the scumbag where the bomb is, the scumbag thinks of it, and J.J. shows us the location." Casey responded.

"Carina, care to be our guinea pig?" Chuck asked, offering the diodes to Carina.

"Um, ok," she answered, as Chuck helped her hook the diodes around her face.

"Alright. Now, Carina. . . did you have a pet growing up?" Chuck inquired.

"Yes, Pepsi. My dog."

Chuck tapped a few buttons, and Castle's monitors came to life. On it, images from a first-person perspective appeared – images of a little red-haired girl playing with a dark brown mutt. Chuck and Casey both smiled, while Abby looked on with awe.

"That's amazing, incredible," Carina exclaimed, a teardrop forming in her eye . . . "I haven't seen him in, um, a long time."

"Casey, I've played with the programming the past few years, off-and-on. Kind of a hobby during my bad times. I improved him a little. Mind lending me J.J. to download the updates?" Chuck asked.

"Don't see why not."

Abby changed the subject, her voice brimming with excitement: "So what's the game-plan for Costa Gravas? When do we fly out?".

"The medal ceremony is on July 4th at 3 p.m., the inaugural ball is at 7 p.m. Figure we'll fly out early on the 3rd to get a good night's sleep and adjust to the time difference." Casey said.

"Any more prep work to do before the ceremony?" Chuck asked.

"Can't think of anything. You reviewed the files. We got squat. Nothing to do now but attend the ball and keep a lookout. But we'll debrief on the 4th beforehand, just to be sure." Casey responded.

"If that's the case. . . I think I'll meet you there. I have something else to take care of." Chuck replied.

"Everything ok?" Abby asked, her hand reaching out and flickering Chuck's arm. Casey rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, just some personal stuff."

Casey interjected: "Alright. We'll reconvene for departure, minus the moron, on July 3rd at nine-hundred. Cooper, Miller, you're dismissed. Chuck wait here."

Casey watched and waited until Abby and Carina were out of earshot, then approached Chuck. "The CIA skirt. Whatever's going on with you two, I don't care. But keep it out of missions."

"There's nothing. We've gone out a few times, to prepare for the cover. She's trying to get me used to PDA again. That's it."

Casey studied Chuck, moving his eyes closely across Chuck's face as if he was inspecting his partner with a magnifying glass, looking for clues. Casey sniffed. "You're a good liar Bartowski. Now, you need a ride back?"

"Nah. I'm staying here. I've got some calls to make. See you in Costa Gravas."

* * *

**July 1, 2022, 12:33 p.m., Castle**

Chuck picked up the phone, "Sis. How quickly can you pack everyone's bags? Can you meet me at the Burbank airport in four hours? No, nothing to be worried about. Yes, I'm serious. It's just a surprise."

* * *

**July 1, 2022, 4:36 p.m., Hollywood Burbank Airport**

Chuck got out of a cab and spotted Ellie, Devon, and the kids. He waved, walked over, and gave Ellie a short hug. Ellie responded with panic.

"Chuck, what's this about. . . we packed, passports, money, the go-bags. How long are we going for? Forever? Will we need new identities? Please tell me the kids can keep their first names. I can't picture Clara as a a 'Denise.' My daughter doesn't have to become 'Denise.' Tell me Clara doesn't have to become 'Denise.'" Ellie rambled on, terrified.

"Ellie, of course she's going to be Denise," Chuck said straight-faced.

Ellie glared at him sharply.

"And Peter has a new name also . . . he's DeNephew." Chuck continued, bursting into laughter.

Ellie responded sharply: "This isn't funny Chuck. Tell me what's going on."

"Ellie, don't freak out. I booked us a vacation, that's it"

Ellie slapped her brother on the top of his head, her slap mixing playfulness with anger. "A vacation! That's what this is about? You told me to be at the airport in four hours, bags packed, with the kids."

"I told you there was nothing to worry about."

"And if there was something worry about, would you call me and tell me 'Ellie, time to freak out.' No, you'd do exactly what you did, try to keep me calm, and wind up freaking-me-the-frak-out."

"Ummm," Chuck muttered. He realized Ellie had a point.

"Now, where are we going?"

"Orlando."

* * *

**July 1-3, 2022, Lake Buena Vista, Florida**

Chuck had booked an all-inclusive stay at a Disney resort. The next day, July 2nd, Ellie took the girls on a Disney-princess search throughout the Magic Kingdom, while Chuck, Devon and the boys toured the Star Wars land, Galaxy's Edge, in Hollywood studios. The day after, July 3rd, the whole family went around the world at Epcot, splitting up into different groups at times, before reconvening for the fireworks display in the late-evening.

For two days, Diana wore a radiant glow everywhere. Even Stephen seemed to smile and, for the first time in ages, Chuck could swear that he saw a look in Stephen's eyes that might have resembled something like admiration, or at least gratefulness.

That night, as Diana looked up at the explosive fireworks display above the Epcot lagoon, she shot her father a smile. Seeing it, Ellie gave Chuck a hug.

"I promised her fireworks. For once, I delivered," Chuck said, squeezing his sister's hand.

"What about your mission . . . Costa Gravas?" Ellie asked.

"I pulled strings. There's a military airport not far from here. I can have breakfast with all of you tomorrow, then hop in a puddle-jumper and be in Costa Gravas in an hour – plenty of time to debrief with the team before the ceremony. Not possible from Los Angeles. But from here? . . . . The solution was staring me in the face the entire time, I just didn't see it." Chuck responded, wagging his face in disbelief.

"What changed, what gave you the idea?" Ellie prodded.

"Sarah. I talk to her sometimes." Chuck said.

Ellie shot him a puzzled look.

Catching himself, Chuck turned and smiled at his sister:

"In my dreams, Ellie. My thoughts. She reminded me . . . of stuff. Our life wasn't perfect. No life is. But, by the end, we basically managed to juggle the whole spy life and the family life thing pretty well. The best of both worlds."

* * *

A/N: To everyone demanding answers from the big WHAM! last chapter, I promise you'll have them. I'll also promise that you'll get them well before this story ends, and that everything will make sense. Be patient. If you've noticed, the way I write is to set up questions, answer them within several chapters, and immediately set up new questions. . . .

Separately, as a favor, if you like this story please share it with other people who are interested. If someone is willing to post it to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd be grateful (I very much value my anonymity so won't do so myself). And, as always, I love reviews.


	14. Knights of the People's Republic

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I still like reviews

* * *

**Sheraton Central Hotel, Costa Gravas, 10:30 a.m., July 4, 2022, Suite of John Casey & Carina Miller**

"So sorry. . ." Carina called out apologetically, as she opened and closed the door to the hotel suite she shared with Casey. Casey, Chuck, and Abby were already there, seated around a small conference table.

"Even the moron made it here before you, and he was coming from Disney World," Casey remarked, with Abby shooting Chuck a skeptical glare at the mention of Disney.

"Sorry. . . accepting bribes is like a national pastime down here, and we only have a few days. I needed to cultivate as many sources as possible," the leggy-redhead responded.

"Whatever. Now that the _entire _team's here, Bartowski can go over the specifics." Casey declared.

"Thank you, Casey. In brief, the mission has three parts. We need to locate the seller and secure the tape. But that's just the start. The problem with digital files is that infinite copies can be made. We need to make sure that everything gets deleted, not just the copy being sold." Chuck explained.

"Can't you hack in, delete everything?" Casey asked.

"Not in the usual manner. To begin with, we need the copy being sold. . . we need to know what we're looking for. Every file has unique identifiers, once we get a copy of the file, I can use those identifiers to build a worm that will search out and delete any copies on a system. But that's the next problem. Getting to the system. The Costa Gravans are crazy about security. There's no wi-fi, no true internet. Nothing that can be hacked from the outside. Only an _intra_net, connecting various computers in a closed loop system."

"I don't understand." Carina said.

"An _internet _is like a building with many doors. You just need to find the right key or passcode to enter. An _intra_net is different. More like a building with no doors and no windows, just solid cement, but with many offices inside. We need to get to one of those offices." Chuck explained, as Abby began smiling, glowing at him, impressed by his knowledge. _'All Chuck, not the Intersect,' _she thought.

"You mean _break-in_," Carina asked.

"Yes, that's what I said." Chuck clarified.

"I knew this mission was going to be fun," Carina replied.

"But wait, there's more. . .," Chuck said, gleefully imitating an infomercial, causing Casey to emit a soft grunt, "We also need to know whether the seller made any _other _copies. It won't do us any good to swipe what he's selling if he has ten other copies on flash drives. Hopefully he'll talk. . . if not, maybe J.J. can get it out of him."

Casey, looking frustrated, jumped in: "Now that the nerdgasm is over, can we get down to business? At the ball, we're going as two couples – Chuck with Abby, me with Carina. The mission is simple: identify the seller, get the copy, neutralize the competition only if absolutely necessary. After we meet that objective, and we split up. Chuck goes with Abby to try to find a way into the Costa Gravan computers. Carina and I will try to 'convince' the perp to talk and see if he's got any other copies lying around. With that, it's time to let some communist scumbag give me a medal."

"Medal? What medal? Beckman didn't tell you?" Abby asked.

"Tell us what?" Chuck asked.

"You're being knighted," she replied.

* * *

**C****eremonial Hall of the Proletariat, Costa Gravas, 3 p.m., July 4, 2022**

"This is humiliating. And I'm not just talking the glasses," Casey complained as he stood upright next to Chuck, both of them wearing military-esque Costa Gravan uniforms, in the foyer, outside the main hall of the Costa Gravan Ceremonial Hall of the Proletariat.

"Apparently it's a tradition here. And remember, we're diplomats for the next few hours." Chuck replied, flinging lint of his uniform.

Just then, music started playing. . . it was the Throne Room instrumental, from the Medals Ceremony at the end of Star Wars: Episode IV.

Chuck smiled. Casey glared: "yes, I recognize the music too numnuts. Don't let it go to your head."

"Careful Casey, any more grunts and you might not get a medal . . . like poor Chewie."

"None of us are getting medals, idiot," Casey replied, grunting.

The doors to the main hall opened. Chuck and Casey took it in. It was magnificent. Similar to a Masonic Temple, or the British House of Commons, the main hall consisted of two pews on opposing sides. In the open center, stood a luxurious red carpet, roughly 30 feet wide and 200 feet long. At the end of the carpet stood two versions of Alejandro Goya. The first, the aging flesh-and-blood version, was decked out in his military finest. The second, right behind him, was a 20 foot golden statue of Goya waving, as if to an adoring crowd.

The Throne Room instrumental music stopped. The crowd in the pews, numbering about 2000, rose to attention. "The Internationale," the international Communist anthem began playing. Casey scowled, a soft grunt emerging from his mouth. "Remember, we're diplomats," Chuck prodded, softly but poignantly directing the comment at Casey from the corner of his mouth. "Ugh," Casey scowled back, forcing his scowl into a transparently fake smile.

The two agents marched down. As they approached the Goyas, they noticed Abby and Carina perched in front row seats, at the very front of the hall.

The aging, flesh-and-blood Alejandro Goya greeted them at the end of the hall, and spoke "Thank you both for coming. As everyone here knows, you saved our country not once, but twice. You never received proper recognition, an error that, as President Emeritus, I now rectify. Please kneel."

Casey grimaced but complied, kneeling on one knee. Chuck followed, kneeling with composure.

"Now, bow and kiss the feet of the Liberation Statute."

"You've got to be kidding me," Casey whispered in an undertone, his nostrils and eyes flaring with rage, to which Chuck quietly but curtly replied "diplooomaaats." Casey scowled again but complied, and he and Chuck simultaneously bowed to kiss the foot of the Golden Goya.

Seeing their supplications, the senior flesh-and-bone Goya smiled, and stated: "It is in my power to knight thee. Return to your kneeling positions, and I ask that you repeat after me . . .

Casey nodded reluctantly, Chuck not so reluctantly.

"In the name of Adam Smith." Goya invoked.

Chuck and Casey looked at each other, confused, but repeated "In the name of Adam Smith," referencing the economist whose theories formed the intellectual backbone of modern capitalism.

"And in the name of Milton Friedman," Goya proclaimed.

Again confused, Chuck and Casey repeated, "In the name of Milton Friedman," this time referencing the libertarian monetarist economist.

"And in the name of his holiness, Ronald Reagan." Goya announced.

"Smith? Friedman? Reagan?" Casey asked in an overtone, to which Chuck whispered "sshhhh… diplomats, remember?"

Goya, overhearing Casey's remarks, smiled and laughed. "'Eh, like China, we're Reform Communists now. To get rich is glorious, and all that mumbo jumbo.'"

Casey smiled and repeated, proudly, "And in the name of his holiness, Ronald Reagan." Chuck did as well, though somewhat less proudly.

"Rise now, as Jedi Knights of the People's Republic of Costa Gravas." Goya declared, loudly, as the crowd clapped and cheered.

"Jedi Knights?" Chuck inquired.

"What can I say, I'm a Star Wars fan," Goya exclaimed, again smiling and laughing, then he began to clap.

"Morgan's gonna be so jealous. . ." Chuck remarked, as he stood up to the crowd's thunderous applause.

"Shut up moron," Casey replied.

* * *

**Ceremonial Hall of the Proletariat, Main Ballroom, Costa Gravas, 7 p.m., July 4, 2022**

The inaugural ball began, and the two couples circled the large ballroom trying to identify both the sellers and buyers – Chuck and Casey with the aid of Jeff's glasses, Abby and Carina with their wits and natural gifts at reading people.

Scanning the room, Casey noticed Chuck chatting with Abby. The glasses failed to capture anything from Chuck at all. No emotions, no bubbles. "Too good a spy," Casey mused to himself. But the glasses triggered as Abby's eyes fixated on Chuck. One again, emotion bubbles floated off her, capturing her infatuation and attraction. Then the animations started. Casey spoke discretely over the comms "Ewww. . . Chuck, I thought we fixed the cartoons. I've got better things to do than look at dancing penises."

"Dancing penises?" Abby asked Chuck, perplexed.

"It's nothing, we're fixing it. Must still be some bugs," Chuck replied.

For the next thirty minutes, the two couples walked and canoodled, with nothing to show for it. The glasses pickup about half-a-dozen nervous Costa Gravans, but nothing else. "They could be edgy about anything," Casey remarked, "lady feelings, job security. We don't have enough."

Chuck agreed. But, just then, he caught the Iranian delegation out of the corner of his eye and flashed. "Carina, Casey. On your 9, about twenty feet away from you, the two men with blue suits and closely cropped beards. Those are the Iranians. Follow them. See whom they are targeting, then distract them," he directed.

Ten minutes of shmoozing later, Chuck flashed again. "Abby, the guy in the purple bow-tie at 45 degrees. That's Rahman Al-Gamul, known fixer for the Sultan's brother Abdullah. Take him off the board once we identify the seller."

"What will you do?" Abby asked Chuck.

"Go after the seller."

Eventually, both the Iranians and Al-Gamul focused their glazes on a minor Costa Gravan intelligence officer, Hector Espinoza, and began approaching him.

"Showtime," Chuck directed. On his mark, Carina purposefully stumbled into the Iranians, spilling her white wine over both the Iranians and her now damp, "see through" dress. "My gosh, clumsy me," Carina exclaimed in a false Southern accent, "and I got y'all all soakin' wet."

"It's all-right miss, please we have an appointment. . ." one of the Iranians responded.

"Aw, come 'on, don't y'all be like that. When a girl from 'Bama done wrong to a fella, the best she can do is buy him a drink." Carina replied.

"We don't drink," the Iranian responded, and tried to get around Carina, only to be blocked by her. The Iranian pushed her out of the way, and Carina screamed.

"PERVERT! CREEEP! That man there, he grabbed by ass, called me a whore, and offered me two grand! When I told him no, he shoved me!"

Hearing her screams, a mini-crowd of six people formed a circle around the Iranians. Meanwhile, Abby approached Al-Gamul, speaking in Arabic.

"Mr. Al-Gamul. Can I have a minute of your time?," Abby asked.

"Whoever you are, and however you know my name, this is not the right time," he responded.

"I promise to make it worth your while. I represent a certain faction of the Iraqi government that would like your master on the throne of Salalah."

"If you have my master's interests at heart, get out of my way," Al-Gamul responded.

"For a sign of good faith, for five minutes of your time right now, you can have my Rolex," Abby replied, taking off her watch.

With Carina and Abby sufficiently distracting their targets, Chuck followed Espinoza down the hall, down the stairs, and outside, with both the Costa Gravan and Chuck picking up the pace.

Chuck opened the door and rushed outside just in time to see two men grabbing Espinoza. Chuck flashed, they both drew their guns.

"Whoever you are, hands up," one man spoke.

Chuck rose his hands in surrender posture and responded, in Hebrew.

"Hey. . . easy now. We're on the same side."

"Who are you?" the man with the gun responded.

"Col. Zachariah Levi, military intelligence, Sayeret Matkal. I was briefed on your mission, Fishman. I am back-up only. For you."

"We received no such information Why should I believe you? What was your Bar Mitzvah portion?" the agent, Dudi Fishman, responded.

"Seriously? My Bar Mitzvah portion? Who are you? Mossad or airport security? Do you want the name of my mohel also? Maybe put your mouth on his handiwork?" Chuck replied sarcastically.

Fishman and his partner lowered their weapons. One second later, both received tranqs in the neck, fired by Casey, who emerged from around the corner.

"Sleep tight, you'll thank me in the morning. . ." Chuck said, as the two Mossad agents slumped onto the ground.

Moving over to Espinoza, Chuck and Casey drew their weapons:

"The video, give it to us." Casey ordered.

Panicked, the man pulled a flash drive from his pocket. "Here it is, I swear, don't shoot."

"Should we trust him?" Casey asked.

"My glasses say he's telling the truth. Yours?" Chuck replied.

"Same."

With that, Casey fired. It was another tranq, which went straight into Espinoza's neck.

"I've got the perp, you find a way into the Costa Gravan network." Casey directed.

Chuck turned towards Casey and replied, "Got it. And Casey . . . May the Force Be With You."

"Shut up moron."

* * *

**Ceremonial Hall of the Proletariat, Main Ballroom, Costa Gravas, 9:23 p.m., July 4, 2022**

Chuck returned to the ball, and reconnected with Abby. He flashed on Sorani, and spoke to his partner in her native language.

"We got it. Now the next steps." He said.

"You speak Sorani?" Abby asked.

"Well, the Intersect can. And it's fairly likely that no one else here does. Any ideas for getting into the network?"

"None. Wait. Alejandro Goya. He knighted you. Maybe he'll do you a favor?"

"Not likely, but our time is short." Chuck replied.

Chuck scanned the room, and located Goya chatting with two dignitaries. He approached him.

"Mr. President Emeritus." Chuck greeted.

"Master Jedi, what can I do for you?" Alejandro responded, smiling and politely bowing.

"Can we speak in private?" Chuck asked.

With that, Chuck, Abby, and Alejandro walked into an empty corridor. Once safely out of earshot, Chuck spoke.

"You may know that your government came into possession of a video. The Sultan and the Rabbi. Copies of it are on your computers. My government would consider it a significant favor if you would let me delete those copies." Chuck asked.

"For your government, nothing. For you, even though you saved my life at least twice, still nothing. What you ask, it . . . it simply isn't possible." Goya replied.

Chuck and Abby looked despondent.

"But," Goya continued, grinning, "as it so happens. . . I have it on good authority that our Minister of Agriculture will be arrested for treason next week. It seems that he was very negligent. He left his office door open, and enabled two foreign agents to access our network. Even worse, the fool's computer password is 'MuertaAGoya,' And his office is just three doors down, on the left."

Chuck and Abby smiled, and Chuck nodded a silent "thank you."

* * *

**Undisclosed Location Costa Gravas, 10:47 p.m., July 4, 2022**

"Wake up," Casey exclaimed, as he threw water over the tranqed Espinoza, who was slowly simmering back to consciousness.

"Whaa. . ." Espinoza said.

"I'd like to introduce you to my friend J.J. . . . Scumbag, meet J.J. . . . J.J. meet scumbag."

* * *

**Sheraton Central Hotel, Costa Graves, 1:05 a.m., July 5, 2022, Suite of John Casey & Carina Miller**

"The computer systems?" Casey asked.

"Taken care of. The worm is working its way through, finding and deleting copies. Espinoza?" Chuck replied.

"J.J. showed us the location of a p.c. where he kept a backup. We secured it. Espinoza got knock-out gas. He won't remember the last twelve hours." Casey responded.

"So mission accomplished?" Chuck asked.

"Not quite yet," Abby interjected, "Don't we need to confirm that the flash drive is, um, the drive we're looking for?"

Casey and Chuck looked at each other, and realized Abby was right.

"Besides, aren't 'cha just a bit curious," Abby asked. With that, she took the drive, went over to Casey's laptop, and inserted it. As she did so, Casey left for the bathroom.

"Casey, where are you going?" Chuck asked.

"Old man porn. Not my thing," he answered.

Abby, Carina, and Chuck looked at each other, as Chuck pulled up the video. On screen, the video showed the two men, Sultan Soobaq and Rabbi Abulafia, entering Rabbi Abulafia's hotel room. Chuck mini-flashed on Arabic.

"What are they saying?" Carina inquired, only for Abby and Chuck to "shhhhh" her.

On screen, the two men hugged. Not a romantic hug. But an affectionate, deep hug shared by two very old friends, seeing each other for the first time in many years.

"Meir, my friend, you got old," the Sultan said, in Salalan Arabic.

"And you, Soobaq, got both old and fat," Rabbi Abulafia remarked, answered his friend in the same language. Both men laughed heartily.

"I have something for you, Meir. I needed to give it to you directly. I could not trust anyone in my government. Not with this. That is why I had to meet you alone." Soobaq stated.

"What is it, my friend?," the Rabbi asked.

The Sultan handed the Rabbi a flash drive.

"My intelligence officers. We stumbled upon this. It's a listing of upcoming Iranian weapons shipments to Hezbollah and Hamas. Nasty stuff. Not just rockets. Chemicals. Poisons. Germs. I trust that you know whom to give it to." the Sultan replied.

Rabbi Abulafia looked stunned. "I don't know what to say. . . why?," he asked.

"I do not like everything your government does. You do not like everything my government does. But these people, these terrorists, murderers. As it is written, whomever saves one life, saves all mankind entirely," the Sultan explained.

"The Talmud, Sanhedrin, 37a," the Rabbi remarked.

"And the Quran as well. Chapter 5, verse 32. Is it not enough for me to save all mankind this evening, many times over? Now, with that ugly business out of the way, why don't you tell me stories of your grandchildren? And I will tell you tales of my nephews!," the Sultan exclaimed, laughing heartily and slapping his knee.

For the next two hours, Chuck, Abby, and Carina watched as the two old friends swapped stories of their lives, exchanged pictures of their loved ones, and reminisced of old times. Then, the Sultan departed, and the video ended.

Abby looked confused. "I don't get it. The intelligence. The physical encounter. The lingerie. There was none of it. Just two old friends, enjoying each-others' company," she said.

"Intelligence is wrong sometimes," Chuck explained.

"But why, why the chaos? Why the mission?" Abby asked.

"Because, from a certain point of view, the truth was even worse for the Sultan. His good intentions aside, he could hardly let his people know that he was sharing intelligence with Israel. He didn't even want to let his own government know. For all we know, it may have been the Sultan who spread the story about the, um, encounter. . . he's survived rumors of gay relationships for over 40 years. And he needed to put the issue on our radar."

"And the young Soobaq's diary, the Abulafia family's exile?" Abby inquired.

"Who knows. Maybe they were lovers 50 years ago. Or maybe they were just good friends, and their friendship rubbed the Sultan's father the wrong way. Maybe the diary is real. Maybe it's more bullshit intelligence. Does it really matter?" Chuck responded.

What that, Chuck pulled the flash drive from the computer, and dipped it in a vial of acid. As the flash drive disintegrated, Chuck continued:

"All I know is that, tonight, we helped a very good man cling on to power. I'd call that a victory."

* * *

A/N: So this mini-arc ends. One of the things that Chuck did very well, and that fanfiction generally does poorly, were the touchy-feely family "feels" moments – which often ended in somewhat unexpected way. I've tried to capture a bit of that in the past two chapters. Hope I succeeded.

I just realized, we're at Chapter 14 and this is really the first true "spy story" that I've told. I've got a one or two others planned before this story wraps up. I'd like to tell more but, frankly, haven't come up with a good enough idea. If you have any, PM me.

Also, I'd like to give a special thanks to gombek69 for posting this story to the Facebook group and helping it get more views!


	15. Moments of Candor

A/N: I don't own Chuck. I don't own these characters. I'm not making money off this. 

* * *

**July 6, 2022, 8:30 a.m. Apartment of John Casey**

General Beckman appeared on Col. Casey's television screen, dressed in a bright, tie-dyed Hawaiian shirt.

"Am I to understand from your report, Col. Casey, that Agent Pulaski succeeded in getting two trained Mossad agents to voluntarily lower their weapons?"

"Correct General, but I don't know exactly how he did it. You'd have to ask Chuck. I observed him emerge from the hall. When the Mossad guys drew their guns, Chuck raised his hands in a surrender posture. Then he started yelling at them in Hebrew. It looked like he was either ordering them around or insulting them. Perhaps both. Whatever Chuck said, they lowered their weapons, which gave me an opening to tranq them. And, may I say General, that's a nice look for you."

"I'm on vacation. You weren't the only ones who had plans for the Fourth. In any event, I'm impressed at his progress. Can I ask you another question?"

"Go ahead, General." Casey responded.

"Do you feel Agent Pulaski is ready to take on more, um, challenging assignments?" Beckman asked, her left eyebrow curling upwards.

Casey paused, understanding the implication. He didn't like it. Instinctively, he folded his arms . . . as if in a defensive posture. "That wasn't our deal, General. When we re-started this project, the understanding was that Chuck would review dailies, go to banquets to flash on people, hack computers remotely, that kind of thing. That's what I signed up for."

"I understand, but I'm asking if he can do more," Beckman pressed.

"With all candor, General, I'd like to remind you that I'm retired from the Corps. I'm a civilian consultant now. I don't owe the same allegiance to the chain of command that I used to. And, frankly, I've got arthritis in my knees. I take beta-blockers for high blood pressure. I'm too old for the kind of crap we used to do. Not to mention, I'm still dreaming that I'll live to see a grandkid one of these days."

"I agree, Col. Casey. _You_ are too old for those kinds of missions. But Chuck?" Beckman prodded.

"I think I've made my position clear, General." Col. Casey responded. He hoped she would take the hint. He may be a consultant, but he was still a Marine. And she was still a General. There were certain lines that he would prefer not to cross.

"Which is?" Beckman asked.

Casey sighed, catching himself before his sigh turned into a grunt. She hadn't taken the hint. He'd need to state his position more clearly. God help him. He walked over to a bottle of Johnnie Walker resting on the small table next to his couch. An empty glass sat beside it. He poured himself a drink, and took a hearty gulp. He replied:

"Chuck has two small children. If you're asking if it's time to place him in unnecessary danger, and without me backing him up, you can go to hell. With respect, General."

* * *

**July 6, 2022, 8:45 a.m. Apartment of Abby Cooper**

General Beckman appeared on Abby Cooper's television screen, interrupting the junior agent in her bathrobe, the agent's mouth overflowing with a mixture of sugary breakfast cereal and milk.

"Agent Cooper, I'd like your report on Agent Pulaski's progress. In your view, is he ready to take this project to the next phase?" Beckman asked.

Abby's face turned red with embarrassment. She put her hand over her mouth as she swallowed the cereal and milk. She threw a newspaper over the bowl in front of her. No reason to advertise to the General that her agent preferred to begin her day by blending Frankenberry with Capt'n Crunch. Having covered the evidence, she noticed the General rolling her eyes at her.

"Did you ask Col. Casey?" Abby replied.

"Yes. His opinion was. . . how should I put this? It was candid. But it was less than productive. In any event, I want your thoughts as well."

Abby pondered the General's question. And, implicitly, the General's offer. This was her chance to escape protection duty, babysitting duty (sometimes literally). To do what she signed up for. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she needed to put the mission's needs above her own desires. Her dreams could wait. The General deserved, Chuck deserved, her candid assessment.

"My thoughts. . . . It's not time, General. He's not ready. His physical conditioning is improving, but it's still shoddy. And we need more data on his ability to effectively utilize the new Intersect's abilities."

"Getting two Mossad agents to voluntarily disarm isn't a sufficient test?" Beckman inquired.

"Not in my opinion. Fooling trained intelligence officers for thirty seconds is one thing. Going undercover for an extended assignment is something quite different. But the potential he's demonstrated is vast. Not just the Intersect, but his innate gifts. It's for precisely that reason that we can't risk sending him out there prematurely. . . . as much as I'd prefer to be out there."

General Beckman smiled, noticing that Abby had begun to blush. "Are you becoming fond of him, Agent Cooper? It's perfectly alright. I am too."

Abby studied the General. Did the General ask out of sheer curiosity? Or was she being interrogated, subtly? Did the General believe that Chuck had compromised her? No matter, Abby knew he hadn't. He hadn't. She was sure of it. So sure. Confidently, she responded, "Nothing beyond what I've disclosed. But . . . General, there's another matter I wanted to bring to your attention."

"Which is?"

"His children. Now that he's emerged from his depression, he's becoming more active in their lives. Do you know he took them to Disney World before the Costa Gravas mission?" Abby inquired.

"Of course, I approved his military flight to Costa Gravas. A small price to pay to keep my Agent happy." Beckman responded, smiling, almost as if she was beaming.

Abby took her time to formulate her words, then responded: "The problem is, the closer he gets to his children, the more difficult it's going to be to get him to leave them for extended periods. . . to do _the job_. To be clear, we want Chuck to function, so we need him emotionally stable. That means making sure his family is safe and well-cared for. But we also need him to be willing to do what needs to be done."

"I'm not disagreeing. Do you have any ideas?" General Beckman replied.

Abby smiled. "Yes. They may not work. But I have an idea or two."

* * *

**July 6, 2022, 9:30 p.m. Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb, Outside, by the Pool**

"A Jedi? Like lightsabers and everything?" Morgan asked, clad in a bathing suit, relaxing on the Bartowski chaise chairs, a diet grape soda resting in his right hand, enjoying an uncharacteristically warm Los Angeles night.

Chuck, on the chair beside him, dressed in a t-shirt and cargo pants, laughed. "I wish. It's an honorary thing. It's not like Goya can give me the power to move boulders with my mind. Besides, the Intersect already taught me how to do that. . ."

"Really?" Morgan asked

"No, not really. Seriously?" Chuck replied, lightly slapping his friend on the shoulder.

The two sat, wordless, for three minutes. Finally, Morgan broke the peaceful, comfortable silence.

"I've been seeing Alex again."

"How long?" Chuck asked.

"About six weeks. Since the hospital actually. Getting shot. It puts things in perspective."

"You want me to thank Abby for you?"

"Ugh," Morgan shook his head, "Chuck, how do I know if I still love her?"

"Abby?"

"Alex, moron," Morgan responded, invoking his inner Casey. "I mean, I care about her. And there are so many memories. Most good, some not so good. But love? The whole butterflies thing in my stomach? I don't know. It's not like last time."

Chuck looked at his friend. Morgan always amazed him: so much insight, so much caring, mixed in with so much perpetual immaturity. He chucked lightly, then responded "Morgan, this isn't a movie. Love doesn't work like that. The butterflies, the euphoria, that goes away. The caring, the bonding, that stays. That grows."

"Do I feel that?" Morgan inquired, "Is that what you're asking?"

"Can I ask you a different question?" Chuck queried.

Morgan nodded, "yes," softly.

"Does it matter?" Chuck asked.

Morgan's eyes bulged, and raised his hands as if in frustration, "Matter, of course it matters, wha. . ."

"Do you like her, enjoy her company?" Chuck pressed.

"Well, um, yes."

"Do you want the same things? Share the same values?" Chuck continued.

Morgan nodded yes.

"Do you find her sexually attractive?" Chuck further prodded.

"Of course, I'm not an idiot."

Chuck smiled, and looked up at the moon, then back at his friend. "Then what's your problem? We're not kids anymore. The days of listening to our heart because our brains just screw things up, that's done with. Ask yourself this: are you a better person when you're with her?"

"Yes," Morgan agreed.

"Are you better off with her, then you've been without her?"

"Yes," Morgan agreed again.

"Most importantly, does she make you happy?"

"Yes," Morgan further agreed, sighing with contentment.

Chuck smiled as his friend, then advised: "So stop worrying about whether your heart feels what Hollywood fantasies tell you it should feel."

"Since when did you get so wise?" Morgan responded, smiling back.

Chuck paused, then changed the subject: "Morgan, are you working the Buy More tomorrow night?"

"Nah, I'm free, what's up."

"I got tickets to the Dodger game. Stephen and Peter are coming. Awesome was supposed to go, but a hospital thing came up. Do you want to take Awesome's place?" Chuck asked.

"You know, I've been wanting Ellie to ask me that question for close to 20 years." Morgan replied.

"Shut up. Besides, you have Alex back now."

"Yeah, I guess I do."

* * *

**July 11, 2022, 3:00 p.m. Café Loca Moca, Los Angeles**

A man in his mid-60s sat outside at a café in downtown Los Angeles, sipping coffee. He was there on business. Meeting a potential investor. Well, _investor_ wouldn't really be the right word. _Mark_ maybe. The investment, binary options, was a fraud. In theory, investors placed bets on whether the price of an asset would hit an agreed-upon benchmark. If the investors guessed right, they won money. If the investors got it wrong, they lost their bets. In reality, the investment was rigged. The "options" were phony, the trades fictitious. More than 97% of the "investors" would lose money. The remaining 3% would win on paper, and demand to get paid back, only to have their calls and messages left unanswered. No one ever truly won. But, the man figured, the stupid and the greedy deserved what they got. And the investor, the mark, appeared to be both. "This sounds like a great opportunity," the investor had emailed him. "I'm looking for a safe, guaranteed 30% return," he wrote. The man sipping his coffee smiled. This was going to be too easy. And the coffee was excellent.

The man heard a voice call him from behind: "Mr. Burton, I presume. On time and exactly where we arranged to meet, I appreciate the courtesy." His investor was here. Right on schedule.

"And you must be William Batson . . . " the man said, pausing and then stammering as his mark came into view, the specter of surprise covering his face, "Schnook. . . what are you doing here?"

"Hi Jack," Chuck said, "We missed you at the funeral. And the annual memorials."

Jack looked flustered. "Not my thing. But I'm sure you didn't drag me all this way to guilt trip me, did you."

"No. But, afterwards, you're welcome to come by the house. I don't think you've ever met Diana. And you haven't seen Stephen in . . . well, I can't even remember."

Jack slipped his coffee, and waived Chuck off. "Arghh. . They are better off without me in their life. The last thing they need is a con-man." Jack replied dismissively, studying Chuck's response, "Hell, look at you. You agree with me. You just don't have the stones to say it."

Chuck gave a noncommittal glare.

"So what's this about, Shnook?"

"I need your help Jack."

"You must be pretty desperate to come to me. Why me?"

Chuck thought deeply. He needed to choose his words carefully. "Jack, I guess, from a certain point of view, you could call it a con. The greatest con ever pulled. It's about Sarah."

"Sarah, as in my daughter? My dead daughter?"

Chuck again gave a noncommittal look.

"Jack, there are things you don't know. I can't say much. But I found a way. She can return."

Jack stared at his son-in-law. Studied him. Jack always prided himself on how good he was at reading people. But Chuck's expression, his seriousness, his calmness. It left Jack utterly perplexed.

Finally, Jack rustled up some semblance of a question to ask Chuck:

"Schnook, are you mentally ill?"

Chuck laughed, then responded:

"Quite possibly. Will you help me anyway?"

* * *

A/N: A somewhat quiet chapter, but necessary for what comes later on. I'd like, again, to thank the readers who are posting on this story on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group. It's helped readership a lot, and it's nice to know people are enjoying this unusual tale. A few wham! moments are coming up. I originally planned about 25 chapters, but may condense things a bit.

On that front, if anyone would be interested in previewing chapters to give me their thoughts before I post, and to let me incorporate edits that would be great. Send me a PM.


	16. Chuck vs The Unexpected Seduction

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this

_Previously on Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

_Abby:"The problem is, the closer he gets to his children, the more difficult it's going to be to get him to leave them for extended periods. . . to do the job. To be clear, we want Chuck to function, so we need him emotionally stable. That means making sure his family is safe and well-cared for. But we also need him to be willing to do what needs to be done."_

_General Beckman: "I'm not disagreeing. Do you have any ideas?"_

_Abby: "Yes. They may not work. But I have an idea or two._

* * *

**July 18, 2022 10:30 p.m. Castle**

_Report of Abigail Cooper, The Attempted Capture of Pedro Elias._

_The mission was simple. Fly into New York City. Attend the Doo Wop-themed fundraising gala for the Latin American Potable Water Association. Identify the hacker Pedro Elias, debrief him, and learn how to disable the worm he planted, a worm that was currently wreaking havoc in the Federal Reserve system. That was the most direct mission. _

_The second mission, the overarching mission, was, and is, far more complicated. Seduce Charles Bartowski. Not sexually. Not that I wouldn't be willing. I've done that type of work more times than I can remember. And this target is far kinder, far more sensitive, than previous marks. Far more impressive a man too. But that path poses no chance of success. The target remains hung-up on his deceased wife. Perhaps, in a moment of weakness, fueled by booze or loneliness, I could convince him to consummate our relationship. It would achieve nothing. No control over the target, no ability to manipulate him. Quite the opposite, it would backfire. In the morning, he would wake up filled with hate. Mostly at himself, but with plenty directed towards me. Sex would distance him from me, not bring him closer. _

_Love then? Some marks crave emotional attachment, and have no interest in a mere pump-and-dump. Could I achieve the objective by convincing the target to fall in love with me? No, same problem. The deceased wife. The target is no more open to romantic attachment than he is to sexual intimacy. _

_Money? No. He has enough. More than he could realistically spend. And, with his talents, he could easily acquire more himself. _

_Threats also won't work. We need him happy, productive, and on our side. Even if we could conjure him to do our bidding, an unhappy Chuck would be an ineffective one. His emotional fragility further cautions against this approach. _

_So how can I manipulate a man to leave his family? A man who can't be bribed with sex or money, duped by fool's love, or threatened? What can I offer him? I can offer him need. I can offer him a reclamation project. I can offer him me. The most damning part is that everything I told him was true. I'm certainly not above lying. It's the job. But there was no need. The truth is awful enough. The truth will work. The target, Chuck, is falling into the trap. _

_I saw it in his eyes when I told him my story. When I dropped the sunny, confused dufus persona I first adopted with him. The sympathy. The empathy. He said he wants to me my friend. He wants to save me. He doesn't realize . . . he doesn't know the truth. I can't be saved. I'm dead inside. The last of me died with Dapîra. There is only oxygen, food, drink, alcohol, and the thrill of the mission. But I can use his delusion. His heart is big. His priorities are poor. Always have been. If I need him enough, need him more than his family, he'll protect me. He'll come with me. A phrase he used, he told me, during the Costa Gravas trip. "The Best of Both Worlds," he said. A delusion. An insanity. But one that I can play on, and use to advance the mission's objectives. I'll tell him he can strike a balance. That he needs to be a man his children can admire. That this path, Beckman's path, is the way to achieve it. And, most of all, that I need him. That I can't do the things that need to be done without him. All so true. _

_In the car ride over from the airport, he called his daughter. Facetimed with her. Wished her good night. He tried to speak to his son too, but the son was too wrapped up in his video games. Then, after the call ended, he flashed on Sorani, Central Kurdish. He said it was for the mission, to let us speak more freely, though still carefully. There are very few Sorani speakers in the United States. But I saw it in his face. In his smile. He did it for me. He does it anytime were alone, mission or not. He knows the affect it has on me. Before the target, before him, I hadn't spoken my birth tongue since Dapîra passed. No one to speak to at the Farm, or on missions. No one back home left to call. It's not like Arabic, which I've had plenty of opportunities to speak. In college. At the Farm. On missions to Brazil, Argentina, Mexico, and elsewhere, where plenty of Lebanese settled. But Sorani? I've missed the words on my lips. I think in English now. I dream in English. When did that start? Not when I was a little girl. It was always Sorani. English was for school, for the store. Sorani was for family, for me. When I was in college? No, I'm pretty sure it was Sorani still then. But at some point, as Bav passed, and then my uncles, my cousins, the phone calls, the visits, they ended. And, at some point, English replaced Sorani. Until Costa Gravas. That was the first time he did it. Now, it's slipped back into my thoughts. Thanks to my target. _

_We attended the ball, presenting ourselves as Charlie and Abby Pulaski. We start to dance, as we scan the room. I don't like the crap that's playing. Not my style. Too old. Too sappy. Teenager-in-love mush. Chuck seems to like it. His touch, as we dance, it's pleasing. I don't know why. We can't find the target. A song starts, "Save the Last Dance for Me." It begins, "You can dance-every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight." _

_Chuck stops dancing. "I can't. I'm sorry," he says. He walks away from me and sits down at a table, bending over, resting his hands on his chin. I follow him, ask him what's wrong. _

_The song continues "But don't forget who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be. So darlin' save the last dance for me"_

_Chuck tells me the story. _

"_This song. It has . . . meaning to me. The songwriter, Doc Pomus, he had polio as a boy, walked with crutches his entire life. He couldn't dance, at least not well. He wrote this song about his own wedding. He married a dancer. She loved to dance. So they struck a deal. During the reception, and afterwards, whenever they went out, she could dance with whomever she wanted, and enjoy herself. But, at the end of the night, they would have just one dance together, his wife holding him up, supporting him, taking the place of his crutches."_

"_I don't understand," I ask him._

"_There was an incident, about a year in to my marriage. I'm sure you've read it in my files. Sarah lost her memories. We had . . . trust issues for awhile after that. Close to a year. And that extended to missions. Most of the time, it would be her flirting with a mark. Occasionally, it would be me. Once in a while, it'd be both of us. During one mission . . . not that kind of mission . . . a boring stakeout, I heard this song on the radio and remembered the story. I shared it with Sarah. She smiled. Her smiles would always melt me. Something in the story touched her. And we struck a deal. Whenever one of us had to do something distasteful with a mark, we'd share one last dance at the end of the mission, to this song. If we couldn't do it on-site, we'd dance at the hotel. If that still wasn't possible, we'd dance at the airport, or on the plane, or when we got home. But we always ended those kinds of missions with this song. I never needed crutches, but I needed her. She kept me from falling. She supported me. She taught me to dance. Sh…." Just then, Chuck spotted the target and flashed. _

_The target spotted Chuck too. We don't know how. He's a hacker, maybe he learned something? Doesn't matter now. We chased him. Out the hotel. Into Central Park, the Rambles. It was dark. The woods aren't large, but they are thick. He got the jump on us. He fired a shot. Chuck saw it. He jumped on me, pushed me, out of the way. He jumped in front of it. He saved me. No, that's not right. I can't be saved. But he took the bullet right in the gut for me. Only his vest saved his life. Big heart, poor priorities. He has children, a family, and that amazing, unique brain. He's a national treasure. And he'll be the tip of the spear. He shouldn't be jumping in front of bullets for anyone. Certainly not for me. But that big, big heart. . . always speaking to him. Elias, he cocked to shoot again. The bang. And then, silence. Casey. He followed us, somehow, bad knees and all. He took him out. _

_This was a capture mission, not a kill. But Casey made the right call. The info, the data, the worm? Chuck said he'd take care of it. I don't know what that means, but I trust him. _

_Casey stayed behind and waited for the cleaners. He ordered us, Chuck and I, back to the hotel. To our room. Got to maintain the cover. Our flight out isn't until tomorrow morning. _

_I'm calm. I've almost died before. It's exhilarating. Terrifying. Wonderful. And then, when it's over, a blissful calm. I'm in bliss now. But the target can't see that. I pretend that I'm shaken up. I keep telling him that I hear the bang, feel the push, over-and-over. I ask Chuck to share the bed with me. "No, not like that," I clarify. "Just hold me, please. Tell me it's going to be alright." He answers me, in Sorani. He says yes. He climbs into bed, puts his arm around me. I'm in my pajamas, he's in a t-shirt and sweats. He feels warm. He feels nice. He feels. . . hard. "Mmphh. . . I didn't know you felt that way," I say, teasing him. He's flustered, embarrassed. "Uh, um, it's just a physical reaction. . . I'm really sorry," he says, apologizing profusely. He's sweet. The way he remembered that I wore a Phillies shirt. Why remember such a small detail? Maybe he does care about me, in some way. I hope so. I can use that. "No, it's ok," I reassure him, "I don't mind. I appreciate the, um, compliment. Just hold me. Please." I respond. He continues his unnecessary apologizing. "You know I don't mean anything by, um, that. I would never try anything. I promise." I respond, I reassure him "I know, that's why I don't mind. That's why your special. Do you know how long it's been for me to be with a man. . . who doesn't want that? Who just wants to hold me, and tell me I'll be safe?" All true. And so helpful. I need to show need. That's how I'll seduce him. "Ok he responds," his arm tightening his grip. Yet, as he closes around me, and I catch glances of his chocolate eyes I sit and wonder. I studied his missions on the Farm. I idolized him. I was genuinely giddy when I first met him, almost like a school girl. Casey warned me that idols disappoint. Chuck hasn't. The man, he's so much more than the paper I studied. We wake up spooning. I am glowing. I know it. Not a cover glow. I catch myself, my thoughts spinning. Am I seducing him? Or is he seducing me? No, he can't save me. Can he? Can he save me? _

Abigail Cooper stopped writing. She stared at her computer, from her desk at Castle. She moved her right hand over the mouse, manipulating the cursor on screen. She clicks, "Select All." She presses one key, just one button, "Delete." Her report vanishes.

"Time to start again. Maybe on the fifth draft," she thinks to herself, as she plots a long night staring at the screen.

Or maybe she should just give up, go home, and have a drink. Probably more than one. The report can wait until tomorrow. She picks up her jacket and leaves.

* * *

**July 19, 2022 1:17 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck sat at his desk by his bed, staring at his computer screen. He needed to decipher the worm. It would have been easier with Elias. It's going to take a week without him. A week he'd rather be spending on other projects. But Casey made the right decision – saving him, saving Abby. It was late now. He was tired. He wasn't going to make more progress tonight. He typed:

_Billy Batson: Free? The connection is secure. _

Thirty seconds pass, then a response came.

_Missile Commander: Yes. _

He typed again, and a conversation began.

_Billy Batson: I owe you another dance. The usual location? Give me an hour?_

_Missile Commander: Ok. Are you 'takin' me home' this time? :-)_

_Billy Batson: No. But were making progress. Maybe our song should have been "I'll be home for Christmas." _

_Missile Commander: How does that one end again, Chuck? _

_Billy Batson: "If only in my dreams." _

_Missile Commander: "If only in my dreams," Chuck. _

Chuck sat back, starting at his screen in silence, smiling. He thought to himself: 'It's a good thing that I just came back from the place where dreams come true.'

* * *

A/N: I tried something different this chapter, hope you all like it. It's the first time I've tried to write extensively in the first-person from the perspective of a female character. Which, since I'm not female, may be somewhat of a challenge. Particularly an original character whom people don't know and already care about. . .

Again, I want to extend my thanks again to the readers who've posted this to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group. It's helped readership a lot, and I appreciate it!

I'd also like to extend my apologies to the greater Kurdish community for my butchered, "Google translate" attempt to use a few Kurdish words (dapira for grandmother, bav for father).

The story will start to move faster from here on out. A couple of wham! moments are coming up.


	17. Chuck v The Rubicon

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

_Previously in Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

_Beckman: "I wanted an update on the Asset's program. Have we made progress?"_

_Chuck: "I've been working with Jeff to debug the software, and to implement certain improvements. We still expect to be ready to ship by September."_

_Beckman: "Improvements? We're conducting a money-laundering laundering sting, Agent Pulaski, not looking to win a prize."_

_Chuck: "We were conducting a money-laundering sting, General. But I've reviewed Jeff's code . . . it has more potential than we first assumed. I don't think even Jeff realizes what exactly he designed. The software. It learns. More than that, we can teach it."_

_Beckman: "To what end, Agent Pulaski?"_

_Chuck: "General, there's an old phrase: 'Do not awaken or arouse love until it pleases."_

* * *

**August 3, 2022, 10:15 p.m. Malibu Beach**

Chuck sat on the beach, his shoes off, his arms around his legs. He looked out, studying the ocean and the night sky. Shortly thereafter, a bald portly man in his late-50s, wearing a teal shirt and a set of Buddy Holly glasses sat down next to him. As the man sat down, Chuck reached out and shook his hand.

"Jeff, thanks for coming. Just wanted to check in. What's the current status?" Chuck asked.

"Why'd you want to meet here, Chuck?" Jeff Barnes responded, answering a question with a question.

"The Fielding office. It's not secure enough. This place, it's empty now. No one around. We can talk freely." Chuck explained.

"Uh, ok. If you say so," Jeff replied.

"Status?" Chuck asked politely, redirecting the conversation.

Jeff looked out at the ocean and answered, "We need to lock down the code before anything else. The factories, the marketing, it's all in place. The people you set me up with took care of that. If we lock the code today, we can start production next week. We'll be ready to ship the week after Labor Day."

"Sorry, I got tied up unexpectedly for a few weeks," _the damn Elias worm_, Chuck thought. "I'll give it a final review tomorrow. I think it's ready to be locked. We can fix any remaining bugs through updates, patches."

Jeff took a deep breath as he stared intensely at the crashing waves. "Chuck, this thing. It's going to be big. I've been doing the rounds, at conventions, conferences. Pre-orders hit 2 million in the first week. They topped 7 million on Monday. And we don't start taking international orders until the 15th. I couldn't have done it without you. The Heritage Investments guys, they're ecstatic. They've been sending me girls, professionals, as thank yous. It's been wonderful. One of them, while we were going at it, she did this thing with a strawberry popsicle . . ." Jeff said, a gleeful smile on his face, as his right hand began motioning towards his own buttocks.

"TMI, Jeff. TMI." Chuck answered.

Jeff's smile dissipated, and his face grew grimly serious. "But Chuck, this program. The improvements we've made. What it is now. What it can do. Especially with the sales figures we're now projecting. It scares me, Chuck. It scares me shitless."

Chuck nodded, acknowledging Jeff's point. He reached out and began gently rubbing his asset's shoulder. "Jeff, the first night I met Sarah, I was in your place. What it could do. . . What it would mean to my life. . . It scared the crap out of me. You know what Sarah said to me?"

"What?" Jeff asked, looking at Chuck for reassurance.

"She said _'Trust me, Chuck_.' And I did. There were bumps along the road. But it all worked out in the end. I'm going to ask the same thing of you. _'Trust me, Jeff._'"

Jeff nodded.

"I haven't let you down yet, have I?" Chuck asked, patting Jeff's upper back to comfort him.

"No." Jeff said, sounding reassured.

Chuck smiled, and replied: "Then get 'otta here and go enjoy the _'thank yous_.' This is your time, Jeff. And you deserve it. I'll give the code a final look-over and then lock it for production. Sound fair?"

"Thanks man," Jeff said, reaching over to give Chuck a big sitting hug. Then Jeff got up and walked away.

After Jeff left, Chuck stood up, barefoot on the sand, and stared again at the ocean. The night was calm. The sky sort of a dark reddish color. It never got really dark in Los Angeles. Too many lights. But it was still calm, peaceful here. The warm sand pressing against his feet. The cool night air. The chilly breeze upon his face. He still enjoyed coming here. Despite the memories. Because of the memories. _''Trust me, Chuck,' how the hell did that become 'trust me, Jeff._' _Have I really assumed Sarah's role? No. I can't hold a candle to her. Not in this role. And she never attempted anything like this. Never used me like this. But she kept me safe. I can do that, at least.' _

Chuck picked up his phone. _'Time to bring Casey in,_' he thought. Just not on an open channel. This conversation remained far too sensitive. Code phrases would be required. He dialed, and Casey answered.

"Casey, do you remember the suit you wore a few days ago that I asked you about?," by which Chuck meant, _Casey, can you meet me confidentiality, come alone? _

"Which one, Chuck?" _Yes. _

"The grey one." _I'm not in danger, nothing to worry about, just need to meet. _

"Yeah, what about it." _Understood._

"Did you say you got it at Jos A. Bank?" _Can you follow my tracker, meet me in 30 minutes? _

"No. I got it at Men's Wearhouse, why?" _ Give me an hour. _

"No reason. Awesome's been looking for a new suit, that's all." _Ok. I'll wait. _

Chuck hung up the phone. One hour to relax on the beach, and stare at the ocean. One hour until he met Casey. _'There were worse things to do than enjoy the peaceful night,'_ Chuck thought, _'But I've got work to do.'_ He took out a notebook and started writing.

Casey arrived about an hour later, on schedule. Chuck was seated again, gazing out at the ocean, and Casey sat on the sand next to him.

"Alright, what's this about Chuck? Why the cloak-and-dagger stuff?"

"I've got something for you," Chuck said, keeping his eyes towards the waves, as he handed Casey a notebook filled with scribbled writing and a cigarette lighter.

Casey received the notebook, and studied the writing on it. "You know I'm only one of maybe 20 people in the world who know this cipher, right?" Casey asked.

"I know," Chuck answered, still looking at the ocean, "Read it. Then burn it."

Casey began reading. His eyes darted down the page, and onto the next page. As he read, his mind swelled with surprise and amazement. Each word begat the next, feeding a sense of shock and reverence. After about fifteen minutes of careful reading, Casey took out the cigarette lighter and burned the notebook. As the flares climbed high into the night, Casey turned towards his old friend and partner and patted him on the back.

"It's a good plan Chuck. I'm impressed. What you've got in the works . . . it's like the intelligence equivalent of the nuclear bomb. I've got to say, I didn't think you had the balls for something like this."

Chuck nodded, his eyes immobile. He let a burst of night air hit him, then responded: "I didn't either. I wonder sometimes. Am I still the same guy you met what, almost 15 years ago? Am I still _her _Chuck?"

"Honestly?" Casey asked.

"No, I want you to bullshit me," Chuck replied, lightly laughing, but still fixated on the ocean, "Yes, of course honestly."

Casey turned stern and serious. He turned his eyes away from the ocean, and looked at Chuck, then spoke: "You're not. Your older. A bit more jaded. A lot more confident. And a lot wiser. The guy I met 15 years ago, he wouldn't plan something like this. His idealism. His immaturity. He did a lot of good. But he didn't weigh costs and benefits. He wouldn't have been willing to take the fight to the enemy with such . . . beautiful efficiency. He'd let a lot of innocent people die instead. But you know what you still are?"

"What?" Chuck asked, his gaze still looking forward, lost in the waves.

Casey looked out at the ocean, and then back at Chuck. He patted his friend on the back again, and spoke: "You're still the best human being I've ever met. And the best friend I've ever had. Are you still _her _Chuck? I haven't the foggiest. I don't even know what that means. But, reading what I just read, I know she'd be proud of you. Hell, she'd be in awe of you. You were never my kind of spy, or Sarah's. You were better. You still are."

"Thanks." Chuck said, but with a distance, his motionless eyes still directed at the waves.

"One more thing, who else knows about this? Jeff?" Casey asked.

"No. He knows about the modifications, but not the plan," Chuck responded, keeping his statuesque glare west.

"Chuck, will he be safe after this?"

Chuck smiled, and gestured, waiving his hands in front of his face, but his glare remaining firmly in place. "Are you kidding? If this works, he'll be better protected than the President."

"And if it doesn't?"

"He'll be a software billionaire multi-millionaire who lives the rest of his life in peace, banging hookers. Just like he always wanted."

"Does Beckman know?" Casey inquired.

"No. I trust her, to some extent. At least with this. Heck, she'd be dancing the conga with joy if she knew what we're planning. But she's not the problem. It's the Agencies. The CIA, the NSA. Too many slip-ups, double-agents, traitors, leakers. There only needs to be one. If the word gets out too soon, we're kaput. More than that, Beckman's still military. She still answers to the chain of command. Something like this . . . this big . . . she'd need to take it to the top. Immediately. And this Administration . . ."

"It leaks more often than a drunken frat boy," Casey interjected, scowling with disgust.

"Yeah, pretty much," Chuck acknowledged, shrugging his shoulders.

Casey turned briefly towards Chuck, then looked out at the ocean. "So who else knows about this?" he asked.

Chuck stared blankly at the ocean and replied: "Just one other. It's need to know."

"Abby?" Casey asked.

"No, not Abby."

"Why did I need to know, Chuck?"

"You didn't. Not yet, at least."

"So why tell me?"

Chuck finally broke his fixation on the ocean to turn towards his friend for a half-second, before jerking back towards the waves. He breathed, and responded: "Because, at some point, the shit's gonna hit the fan. And when that happens, I need you in the loop. In my corner. Besides, we're alike – consultants, without a chain of command. And there's no man on this planet that I trust more. Figured I could jump the gun on the whole, 'need to know' part."

"So should I start calling you Don Bartowski?"

"Huh?"

"'_Today, I settle all family business?' _Did I out-nerd you? I'm gonna kick myself." Casey responded.

"Not 'today,' Casey. But soon enough," Chuck answered, his eyes again immobile and looking west, watching the waves crash into the seashore.

* * *

**August 5, 2022, 2:53 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck took another lengthy drink from his bourbon, and put down the glass on his desk. He turned his glare towards his computer screen. He'd reviewed the code, twice-over. While still sober. It was perfect. Or, as perfect as it could be pre-release. And the test. The test exceeded his wildest expectations. What he found. _'Langstom Graham. I never knew. You utter bastard. You surprisingly wonderful nerd.' _Chuck thought to himself. Then he reoriented towards the issue at hand. _'The die is cast,_' he pondered. _'No, not yet. The Rubicon remains before me, I have yet to cross it. The Rubicon. Just one button. To press, or not to press. 'Enter.' Just one button.'_

Should he press it? He took another mouthful of the bourbon and mentally pounded himself over the question. He'd run the scenarios, the projections, the possibilities through his mind. His mind raced, '_Through my mind, and through the Intersect_. _They were different. They were the same. They agreed. This isn't the only path. But it's the best path. The Kwisatz Haderach_, _the Shortening of the Way_. _Even Sarah agreed, sort of. Reluctantly. She admitted this was the best plan. But she didn't endorse it, not quite. She stopped short. Could she forgive me? Would she forgive me? The cost. The terrible cost.' _

Chuck thought back to the words that Sultan Soobaq exchanged with Rabbi Abulafia. _"He who saves one life, saves all mankind._" Thinking deeper, Chuck recalled another possible translation: _"He who saves one life, saves an entire world_." Chuck contemplated that the idiom. '_It's not just a metaphor. It's not an exaggeration. Not in multiple ways. One life. To that person, their consciousness, their mind, it's the entire world. Close one set of eyes forever, and that world turns into oblivion. Nothingness. The void. Vapors. Beyond that. . . save just that one person, that life, that world. . . . save one life, and you save all their descendants yet to be born. For all eternity. Innumerable consciousnesses, experiences, lives. Infinite worlds.' _

'_But if he who saves one life, saves an entire world, what would that make me? What would I become, if I press the button?'_

Chuck knew the answer. He took a long swig from his glass, and finished his bourbon. Then, he poured another drink from the bottle, brought the glass to his lips, and threw back a generous gulp.

'_The intelligence equivalent of a nuclear bomb. That's what Casey called it. The Bhagavad Gita. Robert Oppenheimer. This is the business I have chosen.' _

Terrified, Chuck started at the screen. Slowly, he moved his right hand. With a simply flick of the index finger, he pressed it. "Enter." He swallowed more bourbon, and turned back to his thoughts:

**'_If he who saves one life, saves and entire world, then what have I become? I have become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds."_**

* * *

A/N: Wham!

Separately, thank you again for the reviews. . . please keep them coming! I do appreciate them, and it's helpful to know what's working and what's not. This is still my first lenghy fanfic.

Also, if someone would post this chapter to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it!


	18. A few moments in mid-October

**A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money on this**

* * *

**October 15, 2022 1:30 p.m., Castle**

General Beckman grilled a seated Chuck, Casey, and Abby angrily from Castle's viewscreen: "Chuck, can you explain to me why Jeffrey Barnes is on the cover of _Forbes_ this week?"

Casey passed a copy of the latest _Forbes_ across the table to Chuck. The cover depicted a smiling Jeff Barnes fiercely biting into an apple, and spitting out the pieces, with the headline "This Pervert Is Going to Kick Apple's Ass."

Chuck studied the cover, and then replied rather bashfully: "Um. . . it's the program General. It's a raging success. Twenty million copies sold. Not just in the United States. Everywhere from China to Brazil. There are even rumors of copies being smuggled into Iran. Jeff's marketing guys project over 50 million copies by Christmas. At $79.99 with a 40% gross margin, that's something like $1.6 billion in profit. Just this year alone."

General Beckman looked incredulously at her team, shook her head, then responded: "I know. It was a rhetorical question. I read the damn article. What I really meant was, why did we help to enrich a Mexican drug gang? Do you know that, according to Carina, El Jefe has suspended its extortion and human trafficking operations? And the only drugs they are running are for legal cannabis operations. It's not because they've suddenly turned over a new leaf. It's because their members think that Jeff's program will make them so rich that they don't want to take the risk of getting killed or caught committing crime. The senior leadership is now calling the gang 'El Jeffi.' 'El Jeffi,' Chuck."

"Um. . . General, isn't that a good thing?" Chuck replied.

"Pardon me?" the General asked, her glaze even sterner and sharper.

"They've stopped extorting people. They've stopped trafficking women and children. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?" Chuck explained, waiving his hands in the air for emphasis.

"When I told you _'dismantle El Jefe_,' I didn't mean 'make them so rich that they'd retire.' Are you really telling me that this was your master plan?"

"No, I'm not saying that, General. What I'm saying is, for now, let's take this as an, um, unconventional victory." Chuck responded.

"And when will we crack the whip?" the General probed.

"Give me a little more time. It will all work out, trust me."

"Alright, but my patience is wearing thin. . ."

"Um, on that front, General, we wanted to alert you to some chatter. This morning, a hacktivist posted a mod on the dark web which puts back in some of the features from Jeff's program that we removed . . . the ability to assess truth or lies, for instance. . . ." Chuck explained, calmly.

The General's reaction was frantic: "My god, Chuck. This is a disaster. Our undercover agents. Our informants, our assets. . . Do you realize what you've done, Chuck? They're all in danger.."

Chuck shook his head, and motioned "down boy" with his hands, then spoke: "They aren't General. First of all, good agents don't read properly. We're too good at lying. I ran the program through the surveillance footage of Sarah. It took the program several weeks, covering many years of data, to get a read on her. In live video in Costa Gravas, it didn't read me or Carina at all. And Casey, well, he just reads as angry, all the time."

Casey grunted, then shot a look at both Chuck and Abby. As he glanced at Abby, he noticed her both visually uncomfortable, but also unconsciously leaning on Chuck for support, her right hand grasped around his arm. _'The moron forgot to mention Abby. The program . . . it reads her easier than a children's book, animations and all . . . then again, Chuck did say that 'good agents' don't get read properly," _Casey thought.

Chuck continued, "But I also built in a fail-safe. One of the improvements I mentioned. I designed it to protect our people during seduction missions, but it should cover the mod as well. The Intersect's data. . . I pulled information on our people, tied them into the program's facial recognition subroutine, encrypted it up the wazoo."

"Am I supposed to understand that?" the General asked.

Chuck responded apologetically, "Sorry. . . the short answer is that I programmed the software so that it either won't read our people at all, or will read them as honest. But. . . for at least a little while, we'll need to be a little careful about developing new assets."

Abby shot him a look of something more than admiration, while the General gasped. "I appreciate your foresight about protecting our people but. . . take a pause on developing assets? I'm not happy about that. We can live with it for a few weeks, maybe. For now. I expect a solution from you."

"And you'll have one." Chuck responded, confidently.

The General pushed her papers aside and a smile crept upon her face: "With that out of the way, I have what I hope you'll think of as good news. There's a convention in Philadelphia of intelligence professionals over Thanksgiving weekend. I've arranged for your team to attend, all expenses paid. No missions, but you'll need to attend some seminars on Friday through Sunday."

Chuck responded nervously: "General, I'm honored but . . . Thanksgiving? That's always been family time for us . . . I don't know how to sell this to the kids, Ellie, Devon . . . I'll have to decline. . . . unless there is some way for me to take them with me."

The General smiled, and Chuck could swear that he even heard her chuckle a bit under her breath. "Chuck, have you seriously never been to one of these things before? Everyone brings their families. It's a conference, and a damn boondoggle, not a mission. With that, dismissed."

Casey and Abby got up from the table, but Chuck stopped them.

"Casey, Abby, do you want to come over for dinner on Saturday night? It's Bartowksi Mother's Day." he asked.

"The annual Bartowski whinefest about your childhood? Pass." Casey responded.

"How about you?" Chuck asked, turning towards Abby.

"Mother's Day, in October?" she asked.

"You've read my file. . . you know the deal . . . Ellie and I, our mom she was an agent. She left on an assignment when I was seven. She didn't come back for more 20 years. Now she's gone again, this time for good. Mother's Day is the anniversary of the day she first left. The day that Ellie and I learned to fend for ourselves. Kind of a Bartowski family holiday."

As Chuck spoke, he noticed Abby grab his risk and stroke it tenderly. She looked up towards him, and asked "A family holiday. . . and you're inviting me?" Noticing this, Casey scowled and walked up the stairs out of Castle.

"Well, I figured . . . your childhood was different, but it was similar in a way." Chuck said, leaving unstated the obvious _'you didn't have a mother either.'_

Abby caught the subtext and nodded.

Chuck continued, "and maybe . . . you could use some adopted family too."

Abby began glowing. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, then responded, "I'd be honored."

* * *

**October 15, 2022 4:30 p.m., Malibu Beach**

Casey stood on the beach, looking out at the sun, which was arching down its horizon. He checked his watch, then turned around and saw Chuck approaching him.

"Thanks for coming here," Casey stated.

"Always. What's this about?" Chuck responded, again facing out towards the sea.

"You're the hacktivist, aren't you?" Casey asked.

Chuck smiled. "You figured it out. I'm not surprised."

"Part of your master plan?" Casey inquired.

Chuck nodded 'yes,' without turning towards Casey, then spoke, his grin growing larger with each word:

"We need penetration everywhere. And we need penetration of the right people . . . the right places. I want that program in every Afghani cave, every Iranian bunker, every Narco's hacienda. People who don't need a toy to pick up women. But people who need a tool to assess the loyalty of their followers, or the honesty of their business partners. . . . Imagine, Casey, fifty million sales projected by Christmas. Fifty million spies. Sitting quietly. Working for us. Collecting data. Sending it to me. To the _intersects_."

"_Intersects_?" Casey asked, his interest peaked. Chuck just smiled. _'Not a slip of the tongue,' _Casey thought.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Chuck explained: "Even I can't handle all that data myself. What was it Yoda said? _There is another._ Figured it was the right time to tell you."

"The other one. . . do you trust him, or her?"

Chuck continued looking out at the sea, as his smile grew larger: "You have nothing to worry about there, Casey. . . . Just like you said. . . we're going to settle all family business."

Casey shook his head, then continued: "Something else, Chuck. Abby, what's the deal? You've been spending a lot of time with her the past few months. I don't give a damn about your lady feelings. But how she looks at you. . . more so now than at first . . . and how you don't look at her. Is this going to be a problem?"

Chuck's stoicism dropped, and a regretful look sprouted on his face: "I don't know. At first, I thought she was up to something . . . with Beckman. I think I more or less figured that part out. But, by then, it just seemed like she needed a friend. . . I'm really just trying to be her friend. . . . The way she looks at me now . . . maybe I'm doing more harm than good. But I can't just cut her out either."

Casey studied his partner, and spoke: "The thing with Beckman?"

Chuck nodded, and responded: "Have you noticed that my covers are getting deeper? Two weeks ago, I was a Professor of English literature. A week before that, I was a Tunisian archeologist. A week before that, a Buddhist Monk. This cultural stuff, swimming in my head. . . messing with my mind . . . At first, I thought this Intersect wasn't meant for me. Now, I'm not so sure. Whatever Beckman's, Abby's, original goal was. . . it had something to do with getting me out of my comfort zone on assignments. . . placing me deeper under cover. Leeping from life to life. . . that was more my father's thing."

"What are you going to do about it?" Casey asked.

"The Beckman thing, or Abby?"

"Either one."

"I have no clue," Chuck said, shaking his head while keeping his eyes fixed on the ocean.

* * *

**October 22, 2022 6:30 p.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Morgan and Alex Grimes waited outside of Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb for Chuck to arrive, holding hands. As Chuck parked his car, and came up the path way, they greeted him excitedly before the house. Morgan, his face looking like a seven-year-old on Christmas morning, ran up and hugged his friend.

"Whoa buddy, what's this about?" Chuck asked.

"Chuck, we're just so excited. . . before you go in. . . Alex and I, we have some news. We wanted to share it with you first."

"We're getting married!" Alex and Morgan shouted together.

"Wow, congrats."

"Now, before you say 'why are you rushing into this,' I mean . . . it's only been five months." Morgan rambled.

"Morgan, I wasn't going to say that. From my perspective, you two waited 3 years and 5 months to fix a mistake. Why wait any longer?" Chuck responded.

"I knew you'd say that!" Morgan said, reaching out and hugging his friend again, before turning quiet, serious: "Chuck, there's something else we wanted to ask you. It's a big favor."

Chuck turned towards his friend, grasped his shoulders, and spoke: "Sure, what is it?"

Morgan stayed serious: "Alex, me, we want kids. But my little guys. . . hell, this is embarrassing. I'm basically sterile. The odds of us having kids are close to 1 in 10,000. Even with _in vitro_, it would be like one in 100. We don't want to wait. . . Alex isn't getting any younger, and neither am I. What I'm saying is . . . Charles Bartowski, will you be the father of my children?"

Chuck took a step back: "Um. . . Morgan, Alex, are you both sure of this . . ."

Morgan and Alex both nodded, and Chuck saw Alex grasp Morgan's hand firmly. If anything, she was more excited than Morgan.

"Alex, what would your father say?" Chuck asked.

She laughed, and responded: "Are you kidding? He thought he was going to get little Morgan-spawn. From his perspective, you're a total upgrade."

"I haven't been a very good father to my own kids . . ." Chuck confessed.

"Bullshit," Morgan replied, "you were a great father who got dealt a shitty deck. . . it could happen to anyone. And since you snapped out of your funk, you've been trying hard. Diana adores you. And Stephen well, the kid's eight years old, give him time."

Chuck looked intensely at both Morgan and Alex and asked "You're absolutely sure that this is what you both want?" As he did so, he also ran the Intersect's psych profile program. Morgan and Alex both responded 'yes,' and the Intersect confirmed that this choice aligned with their personalities.

Chuck spoke: "I'll do it . . . on one condition. That you both go home and think about this for a week. If you come back next week with the same request, I'm in." As he spoke, Chuck knew that their request would be the same whether a week passed, or a month, or six months. But he needed _them _to discuss it more between themselves, for their own sake.

Alex and Morgan both reached out to give him a big hug, with Morgan exclaiming: "Charles Bartowski, you've made me the happiest sterile man in the world!"

Together, they then entered the house, where Ellie Woodcomb had prepared a massive feast for Mother's Day. Roast Turkey, brisket, broccoli, corn on the cob, loaves of pita bread, and wine. Lots of wine. Abby also brought a bottle of arak, an anise-based liquor, which got depleted quickly. Together, the greater Bartowski-Woodcomb clan, plus Morgan, Alex, and Abby, sat around the table sharing stories, laughing, and drinking. As the night wore on Ellie kept noticing Abby looking at her brother, touching his arm affectionately, playing with his hair. She also noticed Abby drinking far more than her fair share, and how Abby's affections got looser throughout the night . . . yet remained unreciprocated.

Towards the end of the night, she pulled her brother aside: "So . . . Chuck . . . Abby?"

"What about her?"

"You're not that dense. She looks at you well, the way that Sarah used to. Not exactly. But close."

"I know."

Ellie pressed: "And you should also know that you need someone in your life. It's not good to be alone."

"I'm not alone. I have you. I have Devon. Morgan. The kids. Even Casey."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"I know. . . but my point stands. I'm not alone."

* * *

**October 23, 2022 1:15 a.m., Apartment of Abby Cooper**

Abby Cooper stared in front of her mirror, her bloodshot eyes, the swirling room, and the light pounding of her head all collectively presaging the hangover she knew was coming. Her makeup was running, and her yellow dress was now heavily stained with spilled wine and arak. She looked deep into her own reflection, muttered an unpleasent truth to herself:

"God damnit. I think I love him."

* * *

**A/N: **I'll be the first to admit I'm not super happy with this chapter. I think the Chuck-Casey and Chuck-Beckman stuff more or less works. The rest of it? Much less sure. If you read this chapter a month or two from now, maybe I'll find a way to make it better. But rather than abandon a story because of a small rough patch, I decided to "write through it." The next chapters should be easier to write . . . and we're pretty close to everything both being revealed and more-or-less tying in together. I'm kinda excited to get to that part. On that front, there are also one or two "missing chapters" of stuff alluded to here (i.e., a Buddhist Monk mission) which I thought about writing, and realized I really didn't have a good enough story to tell. Hence the roughly 2 month time jump.


	19. Charles Bartowski: The Perfect Weapon

**A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this**

* * *

**Wednesday November 23, 2022, 2:30 p.m., Museum of the American Revolution, Philadelphia**

Chuck and Abby looked at the colonial clothes on display at the Museum of the American Revolution, while Stephen scampered around about 15 feet from them looking at a canon. Periodically, waiters passed by, offering wine and little eggroll-thingys. The NSA had rented out the museum this afternoon, and supplied the food and drink, as a social get-together for agents, analysts and their families. But, as it so happened, it was just Chuck, Abby, and Stephen there. The entire family made the flight. This morning, Clara and Diana pressured Ellie to take them to a fall foliage display at Longwood Gardens: being raised in Los Angeles, Diana hadn't seen fall colors before, and Clara hadn't seen them since moving from Chicago. Shortly thereafter, Peter started feeling a little ill, leaving Devon to play guard duty over him at the hotel. As for Casey . . . he just grunted and said he had work to do. But Stephen agreed to come along. "I'm not here for you," he remarked curtly to his father, "I just don't want to see a bunch of stupid flowers and trees. I want to see canons! And the privateer ship!" he said as they walked over from their hotel. Once inside, he contented himself with running around, looking at the exhibits, and generally ignoring his father. Of the two of them, he paid more attention to Abby, throwing her curious glances from time to time.

"You grew up here, right? Ever go this place as a kid," Chuck asked, turning towards his olive-skinned, green-eyed partner.

Abby took a few sips of wine and responded, "Pssht. I was a Main Line brat. We didn't get down here, to Center City, very often. Maybe class trips. Besides, this place just opened a few years ago."

"While we're in town, any old friends to look up?" Chuck asked.

Abby shot him a sad glance, took another sip of wine, and grabbed his hand affectionately. "I didn't get along with the kids in school. I haven't seen any of them seen any of them since graduation. Remember what I said, Chuck? No friends but the mountains? I meant it."

"You have a friend now."

Abby smiled, stood on her tippy-toes, and gave Chuck a soft kiss on the cheek, her kiss just grazing the fringes of his lips. Stepping down from the kiss, she placed her wine glass on a nearby pedestal, freeing up her own hands to grasp his.

Chuck turned towards Abby and asked "what was that for?"

"For being you," she replied.

Stephen saw and, from about 10 feet away, shot them book a look that mixed curiosity with jealousy.

Chuck saw his son and recognized the look, "You know, he's almost nine. A little young, but I think he's developing a bit of a crush on you."

Abby nodded, took a deep breath, grabbed her wine off the pedestal, then gulped down the remaining two mouthfuls. As the wine trickled down her throat, she replied: "I know. But he's not the Bartowski I'm interested in."

Chuck looked deeply at his partner, his brown eyes expressing sadness and regret. "Abb. . . I'm sorry. . . If things we're different. My wife . . ."

Abby cut-him off by placing her finger on his lips. After another deep breath, she reached up and gave him a brief chaste kiss on the mouth. "Shh. . . I know, and it's ok. I just wanted to let you know that I'm . . . I'm available. And that I lov. . ."

Just then, the sound of gunfire interrupted the couple. Chuck and Abby turned, and saw a masked group off 11 gunmen enter the hall. As they entered, they shouted at each other in Pashto, the language of the Afghani Pashtuns. Stephen, hearing the same noise, ran over and hugged Abby's leg, as she reached out to comfort him.

Chuck flashed, recognizing three of the men from the Intersect, and whispered in Abby's ear. "The Pashtun Liberation Front. It's a Taliban spinoff."

"What are they doing here?" she asked.

"I have no idea, but it's not good."

Seeing the two of them speak, a gunman rushed over, pushed Chuck down, and yelled, in English "No talking," then shot his gun once in the air for emphasis. As the bullet hit the ceiling, small flakes of plaster fell like snowflakes.

Soon, the gunmen's leader stopped briefly barking orders at his followers and addressed the crowd. He spoke only a few words, with his manner of speech reflecting that he had memorized them phonetically. He didn't understand a word of what he was saying.

"Everyone, on the ground, now! Sit, do nothing, and we will treat you well. When your government complies with our demands, and our brothers are free, we will let you go. Try anything, and we will kill you."

Chuck, Abby, and Stephen complied. Peaking his head up, Chuck could tell that the rest of the room was complying as well. Five of the eleven gunmen went around, tying up the roughly 60 attendees in the exhibit room, while the other six kept guard, their semi-automatic rifles raised and prominent.

"Ballsy," Abby remarked quietly.

"Huh?"

"Taking on a room of spies, analysts."

"Abby, more than half of these people are kids. Many of the rest are spouses. There aren't more than 15 agents here, some of whom are nearing retirement. And the damn museum wouldn't let anyone bring weapons."

Noticing their conversation, a gunman came up to them, punched Chuck, and again screamed, "Shut up, no talking!" Then he tied up Chuck, Abby, and Stephen, wrapping the ropes around a small exhibit which displayed colonial muskets.

Ninety minutes passed, in total silence.

"Dad, I'm scared," Stephen muttered softly.

"Shh. . . nothings going to happen," Chuck said.

"They, they are going to kill us, aren't they?" Stephen remarked.

"No, you heard them. Trust me." Chuck answered. As he finished, a flash of inspiration came upon him, and he added, "I won't let them." Finishing his words, Chuck's face sprouted a devious grin.

"What are you going to do," Stephen asked. Abby stayed nonverbal, but her eyes conveyed the same message.

"I have an idea." He said.

"What?"

"Just watch," Chuck answered. Two seconds later, his eyes went into the back of his head and spun-around, signifying a flash.

Chuck called out to the nearest terrorist, in Pashto. "Excuse me Mr. Gunman . . . I promise not to make trouble. I have a simple request."

A gunman wearing a green slash ribbon turned around in shock, to see one of his prisoners addressing him in perfect Pashto. Even more surprising was the name tag his prisoner wore.

"How did you learn Pashto, _C. Bartowski_?" the terrorist asked, pointing to the nametag.

Chuck responded cleanly, without a hint of fear or confusion: "My mother was Pashtun. I was born in a village near Khost. My father was an infidel Communist occupier. He . . . had his way with her. I was raised Pashtun, I follow the Pashtunwali, I am a Muslim. I came to this country when I was about six years old."

The gunman looked on with surprise. It was an unusual story. But it fit the facts: his prisoner spoke Pashto like a native. Even his accent matched the Pashto spoken near Khost. If he was lying, he was a damn good liar, and an amazing linguist. But what was a Pashtun from Khost doing working with these American pigs? The gun man responded seriously, but skeptically: "And what is your request?"

Chuck looked briefly at his watch. '_Sundown was fifteen minutes ago,' _he thought. Then he answered: "Please . . . just for a little bit . . . release my bindings? I must pray _Maghrib_ before nightfall sets in. There is very little time left. You are welcome to join me."

The gunman responded harshly, raised his weapon, and put it mere inches from Chuck's nose: "An infidel trick, no doubt!"

Keeping his calm, Chuck replied, continuing the conversation in Pashto, "It's no trick. Ask me whatever you like. Keep your guns pointed on me. But there is very little time left. Surely you won't be responsible for denying a Muslim the ability to fulfill _Salat_."

Hearing that, the gunman backed off. He motioned to two of the other terrorists to come over, ordering them as follows: "Untie him, but keep watch on him."

Two of the kidnappers then untied Chuck, who proceeded to remove his shoes, and walk to a carpeted area with their guns at his back. Once on carpet, Chuck prostrated himself and began to recite the _Magrib _prayer perfectly, in Pashto-accented Arabic.

Stephen looked on in utter bewilderment. Turning towards Abby, he asked: "What's my father doing?"

"He's praying, it's the Muslim prayer said during twilight each day," she responded.

Stephen's confusion only grew. He managed only a single "But" before Abby interrupted him with a stern "shhhh…" Then she reached over, and moved her lips up until the precipice of his right ear.

"Speak in my ear, quietly," she directed.

Stephen saw the gunmen, remembered the instructions to keep quiet, and understood. He leaned over, and whispered in Abby's ear. "My dad, he's not a Muslim, he's not even religious. Kind of an agnostic. What's he doing? Why is he drawing attention to himself?"

Abby moved her mouth back over to Stephen's ear, and responded: "Stevie, what do you think your dad does for a living?"

"He fixes computers. That's why we're here right, some kind of computer convention?" Stephen said, whispering back.

Abby smiled. _'Now or never,´_ she thought, as she moved her mouth back to his ear: "He does fix computers, sometimes. But can you keep a secret? A really important one?"

"I guess, sure."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Yeah"

"Your dad is a spy. I am too."

Stephen's mouth stood agape, as he stared at Abby with amazement, and then twisted his head to see his father, chanting in Arabic, immersed in the _Maghrib _prayer.

"No way." Stephen replied.

Abby's smile grew. She again moved her mouth towards Stephen's ear, and replied:

"Way. When he's not at home, it's not because he doesn't love you. It's because he loves you so much that he needs to keep you safe, keep your sister safe, keep everyone safe. Your dad, he saves the world. No one else in the entire world can do what he does." Abby left the rest of her thoughts nonverbal: _'Maybe I don't need to drive them apart . . . maybe another approach would achieve the objectives better.'_

"Does he, like, kill people?" Stephen asked, as an ounce of terror pushed up against the pound of wonder he felt.

Abby shock her head, as she reached out to grab Stephen's hands, caressing them for comfort. "No. He doesn't need to. That's why he's so great. He solves problems just by being Chuck. Watch him. Watch him work. He's going to save all of us."

"My father, the turd herder, is a spy? A hero?"

"Yup," Abby said, with her big smile now expressing pure radiance.

Stephen looked back at his father, still immersed in prayer, and uttered only one word: "Awesome."

Chuck chanted the _Maghrib_ until its conclusion. Of the 11 terrorists in the room, 6 prostrated themselves and joined him, letting him lead, while the rest looked on, dumbfounded.

After Chuck finished, the leader of the group approached him. Chuck tried to stand up, but a gunman placed a rifle at his back and motioned for him to stay on his knees.

"What is your name, _C. Bartowski_?" the leader asked, his harsh tone of voice filling the room with rage and suspicion.

"Charles, but my friends call me Chuck. . . . You can call me Chuck if you like." he said.

"And am I your friend?," the leader responded, raising his own rifle to Chuck's face.

"Not yet, but I'm hoping you will be."

"Tell me _Chuck_, what kind of Pashtun name is _Charles_?"

"It's not. . . I told your friend over there," Chuck said, motioning to the gunman with the green slash ribbon, "only my mother was Pashtun. But she raised me."

"Well, _Chuck_ . . . that was the most beautiful rendition of the _Maghrib_ that I had ever heard. Tell me, why are you a traitor? Why are you working for these infidels who hate and kill us? Why should I not kill you right now where you stand?" As he finished speaking, the leader placed his rifle just below Chuck's nose, on the philtrum, the small depression between the nose and the upper lip.

Chuck shot a quick glance towards Stephen, who was now enwrapped in a comforting hug form Abby. Then he turned his attention back to the group leader. Smiling, he spoke:

"Can I ask you a question? In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, what is your basis for doing this. . . for taking all these people hostage? For killing? For killing in a foreign country? What _Surah_? What _Hadith_? If a _Hadith_, what is the line of transmission? Is it reliable? If not a _Surah_ or _Hadith_, what part of the _Sunnah_? What school of law do you follow? _Hanafi_, like most of our brethren?"

The group leader punched Chuck in the face. "You're trying to trick me!"

"No. I'm just trying to talk with you. To understand where you're coming from. And, maybe, just maybe, talking will help you to understand where I'm coming from. Why I've chosen this life."

The leader waived him off, turned his back to Chuck, and walked away, then motioned to two of his followers, directing them to shoot their Muslim hostage.

Chuck didn't bring a sweat. His arms still raised in a surrender posture, he responded calmly, still in Pashto, "You can shoot me at any time. But, in the meantime, is your faith so insecure that you are unwilling to even talk to me? Are you really worried that one conversation will turn you into a _kaffir_? If so, I am sad that your faith is so weak."

The leader paused his steps and smiled. He motioned for his followers to back off, and then turned around to face Chuck. "Alright, _Chuck_, let us talk. After all, we have time to kill until your NSA responds to my ransom demands."

For the next two hours, Chuck sat Indian-style on the floor, calmly talking and exchanging ideas with the terrorist leader, whom he soon knew as Bismillah. Then the two broke for _Isha_, the nighttime prayer, which Chuck led. This time, eight of the eleven terrorists joined in, including Bismillah, with only three keeping watch, their guns trained on the captives. After _Isha_, Chuck and Bismillah broke bread, continuing their conversation, as food and water was distributed to both the terrorists and the captives. Of Bismillah's ten followers, at any time, eight stood in a semi-circle around Chuck, listening to him, asking questions, receiving answers. The other two continued to wander around the room, monitoring the hostages. Every thirty minutes or so, the two guards on duty would swap places with members of the semi-circle, giving everyone a chance to participate in the talk with Chuck.

After another three hours of conversation, it became clear that Chuck had won the battle of wills. The eyes of Chuck's new followers stood transfixed on him, shaking their heads in agreement as Chuck pointed out various fine points of Islamic law, dismantled the extremism of philosophers such as Sayyid Qutb, and preached a faith based on peace and tolerance. After another hour, Bismillah found himself more-or-less convinced. Two more hours after that, and Bismillah motioned for Chuck to stand up. He gave him a big hug. Then, he motioned for his crew to drop their weapons, release the hostages and surrender.

Now a free man, Chuck walked back to where he had been tied up earlier. He found Stephen sleeping peacefully on Abby's lap, both of them still tied up. Abby peered into those deep chocolate eyes, as Chuck personally knelt down to release his son's bindings, then her own. As the rope came off, Stephen stirred awake.

Chuck noticed his son's eyes open. "Hey buddy," he said.

"What happened?" Stephen asked, still half-asleep.

"It's ok. We're safe. They're letting us go."

"How? Why?" Stephen asked

Chuck smiled, then hugged his son deeply. Releasing the hug, Chuck responded, his face only a few inches from Stephen's:

"Well, these men. They had some funny ideas. I convinced them that they were wrong."

"That's it?" Stephen asked.

"More or less, yeah. That's it."

Stephen gave his father an enormous hug. Over the next few seconds, Stephen thrust off the last vestiges of sleep while strengthening his firm grasp of Chuck. And, although Chuck couldn't see it, Stephen's face beamed with pure admiration at what his father accomplished. . . how his father, _the spy_, _the hero_, had saved him. All without firing a shot.

"More or less?" Abby asked, to the hugging father-son pair.

"Well, I had to promise to talk to the U.S. Attorney's Office about leniency. And I had to promise to visit Bismillah in prison."

"As his friend?" Abby inquired.

Chuck smiled and shook his head. "No. As his chaplain."

Hearing his father's conversation with Abby, Stephen partially broke off his hug, and looked into his father's eyes.

"Dad, I know that I'm a brat sometime. . ."

"Shh. . . don't say that. You're wonderful." Chuck said, interjecting.

"Yeah, but I'm also a brat. But you know I love you, right?" Stephen said, breaking off the hug long enough to look into his father's eyes.

"I know, I know. And you know that, even though I haven't always been there, for you and your sister, I love you too, right?" Chuck said.

"Yes, I do . . . now. My dad. The hero. Wow."

"Shh. . . it's ok."

With that, Chuck picked Stephen up, flung him over his shoulders, carried him through the legions of police, agents, reporters, and onlookers, and took him back to their hotel.

The next morning, Stephen awoke in a hotel bed to a kindhearted Chuck and Abby looking over him. He looked around the room, but Peter and Devon weren't there.

"Hi buddy. . . big night last night, huh." Chuck said.

"You. . . you saved us."

"Yes, but we need to have a serious talk, ok?"

Stephen nodded yes.

"I have a mission for you, Stevie. I know Abby already told you this, but I thought you should hear it from me. You've got to keep what you saw a complete secret, right? You can't tell your friends at school, you can't tell Peter, Diana, or Clara. Do you understand?

Stephen again nodded.

"Can you do this, can you keep this just between us? I need to hear you say it."

"Yes, I promise. But, can I ask. . . do Aunt Ellie and Uncle Awesome know? Did Mom know? Is . . . is that my Mom died?"

Chuck gave his son another hug. "It's ok. Yes, your Aunt and Uncle know. Mom knew too. But this had nothing to do with what happened to her. Nothing."

Stephen nodded again.

"So, Stevie. . . will you accept your mission? Will you be _my _agent?" Chuck asked.

Hearing that, Stephen gave his father a big hug, and answered "Aye, aye. I'll keep the secret. And. . . it will all be different now. I promise."

Beginning with that morning, things were different. In recognition of his accomplishments, General Beckman freed Chuck from any responsibility to attend conferences and seminars over the next few days, allowing him to devote his attention to his family. On Thanksgiving Thursday, the entire family, plus Abby and Casey, enjoyed a large Thanksgiving feast at City Tavern, a popular colonial themed restaurant, followed by Chuck, Stephen, and Peter watching football back at the hotel. The day after, the entire family went to the Franklin Institute, a major Philadelphia science museum. As the moved from exhibit-to-exhibit, Stephen hung on Chuck's every word, immersed in Chuck's explanation of how the displayed proved principles of chemistry, physics, and astronomy. That night, and the following evening, Chuck, Stephen, and Peter used Chuck's laptop computer and the hotel's wi-fi to enjoy a massive marathon of personal nerd favorites, including the original cast Star Trek movies. Somehow, Chuck also managed to find plenty of time for Diana too, although their differing ages and genders meant different interests. Fireman's Hall, a small museum of firefighting, was a big hit for both of them on Saturday afternoon, as was the Dave & Buster's arcade.

On Sunday afternoon, they all piled into a large SUV for an Uber ride back to the airport. From the backseat, Chuck turned to Stephen on his left, and Diana on his right, and smiled. It was the happiest he had been in over three years.

* * *

**November 24, 2022, 8 p.m., Sheraton Old City Hotel Philadelphia**

General Beckman spoke through an internet connection on Abby's computer:

"Can you confirm to me that this wasn't another one of your _'tests_,_'_ Agent Cooper?"

"Confirmed. From what we can tell, the PLF found out about the gathering due to a paperwork glitch. The NSA originally booked the event under its own name, and someone working at the museum passed the information on. The solution, the salvation . . . that was all Chuck, General."

General Beckman looked aghast, yet pleased. "I'm amazed. I'm still reading the reports but, from what I can tell, in a span of a few hours, Chuck impersonated a Pashtun Muslim, despite his incredibly Polish name, managed to befriend an entire 11-member crew of terrorists and, what, convinced them all to disarm?"

"More accurately, he convinced them that their understanding of Islam was incorrect."

"He's exceeded my expectations. You've done well, Agent Cooper. He's now our perfect weapon."

Abby nodded, then smiled: "And, General, he's ready. Ready to take on a long-term uncover assignment."

General Beckman nodded back, smiling, then responded:

"Agreed. This petty-mission bullshit is over. It's time to take Operation Bartowski to the next phase."

* * *

A/N: This is one of the chapters I've been looking forward to writing since I started his fiction. Hope you liked it. The next two chapters are big, filled with the major reveals (among other things). Also, if someone could post on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group I'd appreciate it.

Coming up - Charles Bartowski: Destroyer of Worlds


	20. Chuck Bartowski: The Destroyer of Worlds

A/N: For people who read this the first few days after publication, apologies for the typos. I shouldn't publish late at night. I think I've cleaned them up.

Also I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

**November 29, 2022 9:30 a.m. Castle**

Chuck, Casey, and Abby sat quietly around Castle's conference table the Tuesday morning after Thanksgiving, awaiting their debriefing from General Beckman. Soon, the monitor sprang to life and General Beckman greeted them:

"Team, a few things. First, I wanted to congratulate Agent Pulaski for his outstanding work in resolving the museum incident last week. Chuck, you left me speechless, that's hard to do. Second, I was expecting to be coming to you this morning with a fundamental change of mission, but that will have to wait. We recently discovered a problem that's right up your alley and needs your personal attention, Agent Pulaski."

Chuck looked curiously at the monitor, "What kind of problem?"

The General responded. "A worm. As far as we can tell, it's unrelated to the Elias worm that you cleaned up a few months ago. This is something different. We're not sure what it's even doing. But it's sitting there, in both the CIA and NSA databases. And, from what we can tell, it's been sitting there for quite a long time. For such a worm to be taking up residence on our most secret databases for months. . . my god, the situation could be dire."

Chuck grew a small smile, which he sought to suppress, or simply play off as interest in the problem. "General, can you show me some of the coding for the worm?," he said.

The General hit a few buttons with her left hand, and her visage became confined to the upper left corner of the screen. The rest of the monitor filled with slowly scrolling lines of computer code. Chuck recognized the code immediately and laughed. Hearing his laughter, the General hit a few more keys, and the coding vanished. Once again, her stern grin blanketed the entire monitor. "Can you explain why you find such a grievous security breach to be funny, Agent Pulaski?," she asked.

Chuck tried to hold back his laughter. Brightly smiling, he answered her question: "General, I know all about this worm. I put it there."

Hearing Chuck's reply, General Beckman blew a gasket. Her eyebrows raised nearly to her widow's peak, her glare turned ice cold, and she shrieked at her agents: "You did what! Why the hell would you do such a thing!"

Chuck motioned "down boy," with his hands, as if to try to calm General Beckman. But his efforts only seemed to enrage her further. He spoke: "General, don't worry. The worm. It's harmless. As for why it's there well, that would be better discussed in person. Not over even a secured communication. When can you get out here?"

The General replied sharply, as metaphorical steam continued to rise off her head. "For a situation of this magnitude, I can be on-site tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, Col. Casey, please take Agent Pulaski into custody. I'd say leave him in a cell in Castle, but he'll just escape. Do what you need to, tranq him if necessary. Make up a cover story for his family."

Abby flinched at the General's words, her expression conveying shock, but didn't speak. It was Casey who jumped in: "General, are you sure that's necessary . . . I mean, it's _Chuck_."

"Yes, and _Chuck_ just confessed to unleashing an unlicensed piece of malware on the entire national security database, without authorization, and won't give me a straight answer as to why. Until I get the answers I'm looking for, and probably for much longer, he's under arrest. Now dismissed!"

Castle's monitor cut off. Casey stood up, pulled his sidearm, and aimed it at Chuck.

"Whoa, Casey, can we talk about this," Chuck begged, as he raised his arms above his head in a surrender posture.

Abby stood up and took a half-step forward, as if attempting to get between the two senior consultants. Seeing this, Casey barked at both of his partners: "Chuck, nothing personal. Just orders. Orders that I agree with. Abby, go home. You're off-duty."

"Wha . . . why?," she pleaded.

Casey responded, harshly: "You've got feelings for the nerd. Consider this me watching your backside. I'm preventing you from doing something foolish. Now leave, before I point a gun at you."

Abby reached up, gave Chuck a soft peck on the cheek, and mouthed "I'm sorry," in a barely audible undertone. Then she hesitantly turned, and walked up Castle's stairs. Standing in front of the door, she paused. Only after Casey howled "Go! Now!," did she exit.

As the door closed, Casey lowered his side arm, and the two old partners stared at each other silently. Three long seconds later, both of them burst out laughing simultaneously.

"This about what I think it is?" Casey asked, still laughing.

"Yup." Chuck said.

"So, you going to escape?"

"Not planning on it, no." Chuck replied, trying to stifle his own chuckles.

Casey finally got his laughter under control: "Well, you heard the General. I can't let you leave. But I can invite Morgan over. And give you a choice of marathons, Twilight Zone or The Original Series?"

"Sure, let's call up Morgan. Maybe he can bring us some pizza."

* * *

**November 29, 2022 6:15 p.m., Casa Bartowski**

Casey, Abby, and General Beckman stood in Chuck's bedroom, in back of a seated Chuck who sat at his computer desk.

"Chuck, why the hell did you drag me across the country and ask me to meet you in your bedroom, of all places?" Beckman asked, her anger palpable.

"He must be getting tired of just Abby spending time in this bedroom," Casey interjected.

"Shut up Casey," Abby quickly retorted.

"Children, children. Please calm down. To answer your question, two reasons, General. First, it's more secure. I've swept every inch of this place. At Castle, all our data goes directly to the NSA. We can't afford leaks. For now, this needs to be for your ears only. Second, what I have to show you is here."

"As always, you are trying my patience but go on," the General responded.

Chuck turned his chair around to face the group: "The worm is a modified version of Jeff's program. I don't think Jeff ever quite realized what he invented. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually a little jealous of him. He thought he designed software that could assign emotions to facial expressions and other forms of nonverbal communication. And, at the most simplistic level, that's what he did."

"And at a more in-depth level?," the General asked.

"It's an AI, an artificial intelligence. Maybe the most ingenious one that I've ever seen. Let's call it Hal, for now. Now, here's the thing. Jeff didn't _program _Hal to distinguish smiles as one thing, and deep stares as something else. He _taught _it. And, what he didn't teach, the program somehow managed to learn by itself."

"How do you know this?"

"General, do you recall releasing all the surveillance videos of us, going back to the beginning - fifteen years ago? I wanted the video for my own purposes, for my own investigation into Sarah's death. Shortly thereafter, we stumbled upon Jeff's program, and I realized that the 12 years of video could do double duty: we could use the video to test the efficacy of Jeff's program. So I assigned Hal to analyze all the data. After seeing the results, I was dumbfounded."

"What did you find?"

"The program saw certain facial expressions and body language that Jeff never exposed it to. It didn't know what to make of them. So the program did its _own _research, using my computer's resources, the internet, other tools, to figure out what they were. It determined, correctly, that Sarah had suffered a series of mini-strokes – mini-strokes I never knew about."

The General was visibly frustrated: "Chuck, as much as I love hearing about your deceased wife's medical problems, what the hell does this have to do with the worm?"

"I'm getting to that, General. I released the worm on the NSA's and CIA's databases, essentially, as a test of Hal's power. Hal figured out how to classify various kinds of visual clues as different emotions, such as 'happy,' 'aroused,' 'irritated,' etc. I wanted to see if it could seek out and analyze data on a broader scale: take huge amounts of information, and select out stuff that fit within the categories I assigned it. So I tasked Hal with searching for information about my wife."

"Why?," the General inquired, her anger and frustration slightly fading into a kind of curiosity.

"Because you authorized it, General."

"I did no such thing," the General shot back curtly, her anger again overtaking her curiosity.

"You did. Remember my original conditions for signing up? The terms of my consultancy contract? You specifically authorized the release of _'all information'_ pertaining to Sarah Walker-Bartowski to me."

The General looked exasperated. "And I did. . . I gave you the surveillance videos, her personnel file, her medical file, her performance reviews, her genetic scans, her mission reports . . . what else could you possibly want?"

Chuck swiftly corrected her. "Yes, you released some files. But you authorized the release _'all information_,' pertaining to her. I just interpreted the phrase 'all information,' well, rather literally. And you never limited _how_ I could access this information. So you see, General. . . you can't arrest me because, well, you authorized the worm."

"Damn you," the General muttered, as her hand frantically rubbed her own forehead. Once again, Chuck had trapped her.

Chuck continued his explanation: "In any event, the test had two purposes. The first purpose, and the biggest one, was to see how much information the worm could collect given a pretty simple mandate: find information about Sarah Walker-Bartowski."

"I'm still searching for the point, Chuck," the General exclaimed.

"I'll cut to the chase. The worm hit the motherload. It captured emails which mentioned her, references to her in mission reports, scraps of surveillance data from pre-Intersect missions, footage of her in meetings at Langley. It even found a top-secret project known as Project Revan. Ever hear of it General?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I didn't think so. I don't think Sarah knew either. Just another of Langston Graham's little dark projects. Anyway, the more data Hal processed, the more it learned, and the more it learned, the more data it recognized as relevant. For instance, I didn't teach Hal phrases like 'Ice Queen." But, once Hal hit upon something calling Sarah the 'Ice Queen,_' _it _learned _that references to _'Ice Queen'_ meant references to Sarah. Then, it started looking for data relating to the _'Ice Queen_.'"

"Chuck, again, this is all very nice. . . but you still haven't given me a reason for not throwing you in a cell for the next twenty years"

Chuck smiled, almost gleefully: "General, what if, instead of looking for data about just one person, the program was looking for data about terrorism? About armed insurrections? About human trafficking? About drug-running? About money-laundering? About other ways of hiding financial assets?"

"It would be a powerful intelligence weapon."

"Now, what if I told you that a copy of the worm is included in every copy of Jeff's program."

The General's anger and frustration finally faded, and a small grin emerged. "I'm listening."

"Now, what if I told you that every time someone put on those glasses, information from the device's facial recognition software was run through our database, and matched to known perps, giving us a precise time and place for where they were?"

"It would be an even greater intelligence weapon."

"Now what if I told you that there are currently 47 million of those weapons worldwide. Current sales projections indicate that we'll hit 60 million by Christmas. All of them working for us. Combing through files. And sending us precise data about every little evil deed they encounter, and every perp they happen to stumble upon in a coffee shop. And, what if I also told you that, thanks to some 'creative' marketing, copies of the program are installed on computers owned by almost every unfriendly government, every major terrorist cell, most minor cells, and virtually every organized crime syndicate worldwide."

The General grew but quickly suppressed a full-blown smile, before skepticism overtook her. "How the hell is all this possible? Aren't these just a dumb pair of glasses?"

Chuck explained: "They _were _a dumb pair of glasses. We improved them. We also required that buyers install the software on a computer to _register _the glasses, both to use them the first time and to receive periodic software updates."

The General's skepticism remained: "This is all well-and-good, but what about civil liberties, FISA warrants. How can we use this information?

Chuck laughed, then turned his back on the group and started clicking keys on his computer. "That's the best part. No one ever reads the Terms of Service."

Chuck pulled up the Terms of Service and showed them to the General. Buried on page 63, in Section XXIII(D)(4)(b)(iii), was the following language:

_Licensee agrees to permit licensor to monitor and retrieve data stored on devices or networks in which software is installed, or generated while software is in use. _

The General took a few seconds to let the information sink in. Her eyes grew as wide as the continent. "Chuck, so what you're telling me is that you've duped virtually every hostile government, terrorist group, and organized criminal faction into simply handing over their information, to us?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

The General reached over, placed her arm around the seated Chuck, and gave him a big kiss on the top of his head.

"General, you haven't heard the best part." Casey interjected.

"Which is?"

"We're going to take down every mother-fucking one of them, at once, simultaneously." Casey added.

"How?"

Chuck explained: "General, do you remember my other requirement for signing up again?"

"Yes, you asked me to release the Intersect's source code to you. You said that you needed it to build a governor."

"That's right. . . and that was true. But I've been using the original _computerized _Intersect for a different purpose. It's been filtering the data for me. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff. Cutting down the data the data that we're getting from our millions of computerized spies to a manageable level, where I've been using it to prepare a list."

"A list of what?," the General asked.

Chuck continued his explanation: "Targets. Both physical and financial. With enough drones, enough manpower, both military and law enforcement, we can strike and eliminate every hiding hole, every safe house, every secret base, every so-called "legitimate" business that's really just a front. At the same time, we can turn the financial list with the supporting evidence over to the legal geeks, who can freeze and seize assets. I'm talking everything: bank accounts, houses, storage units with old baseball cards. Everything. Whomever survives the physical onslaught will be left with no money, no assets, no bases, no means of support. They'll be functionally eliminated as a major threat. At our discretion, we can bring our allies in on the bounty – give the Israelis what they need to wipeout Hezbollah, help the Columbians crush FARC, you name it. In a single-day, a few days at most, we can eliminate the vast majority of the threats facing the United States and her allies."

The General finally grasped the full picture of what Chuck had devised: "And this is why you needed such secrecy, even from me?"

"Exactly. The second that news of this leaks, our window of opportunity vanishes. You, I trust. But the entire NSA? The idiots in this Administration? We need a covert buildup of personnel and equipment, followed by rapid deployments and eliminations."

"I see your point. And I'm forced to agree," Beckman said, reaching down to hug him again, "You did well, Chuck. More than well. You continue to leave me speechless . . . all this, coming from you?"

"Well, I had help."

"Help?"

"I read Casey in, for instance. He's advised on the logistics."

The General pondered her next move, but quickly realized it was an easy call: "I see. Well, I was going to send you and Abby deep undercover in Iraq, to eliminate the Arabian Salafist State, a rather violent remnant of the Islamic State. But consider that mission indefinitely postponed. With the value you're adding here, processing this data, a single undercover assignment can wait."

Chuck nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, General. One more thing, about timing. I mentioned that my test of the worm had two purposes: in addition to needing to know what the worm could do, I needed to know how long it would take the NSA and CIA to find it. I released the worm in May. It's now November. It took the NSA and CIA, two literal _security and intelligence agencies_, about six months to find it. I think that's a relatively good proxy for how long we have until one of the customers stumbles upon it. It's only been about 2.5 months since the program went live. But we should err on the side of caution. At some point, there's no point in doubling-down on a hard 20."

"I agree. What do you recommend?," General Beckman replied.

"Wait until shortly after Christmas. The big sales rush will be over by then. Give our little Hals a week or so to process the data. Let's plan for a target date in the first week of January. That will also give us time to build up drones, troops, equipment around the world."

Beckman again paused in admiration, taking it all in: "Since when did you become the General?"

"I didn't. But that damn cultural knowledge you stuck in my head. Sun Tzu's Art of War. Caeser's Gallic Wars. General Patton's autobiography. Arik Sharon's memoirs. You gave me the tools. You did this to me, for better or worse."

Beckman nodded. "I see. One more question - Where the heck did you get the processing power for that?"

"I borrowed it, from the NSA and the CIA. It's similar to the coin mining process. The Intersect has been running, in the background, across the NSA's and CIA's servers for the past two months, accessing unused computing power at such a low level that no one would notice it."

Beckman's glow faded, and a concerned look again dominated her face: "The security risks?"

Chuck calmed her down: "Nonexistent. The code isn't accessible to anyone, merely the existence of one of dozens of nondescript programs operating in the background, drawing a tiny fraction of the servers' unused power. There is, however, something, someone, we need to watch out for."

"Who?," the General asked.

"Jeffrey Barnes. Our asset. The person who made all of this possible. We need to protect him. At some point, news about what his program did is going to leak. When that happens, he's going to be famous. He's going to be an American hero. He's going to be a target."

"Agreed. What do you suggest?"

"We have a month. Move him to a secure location. Not a bunker – he'll be too in demand by the media for that anyway. Maybe a rural estate. Someplace no one would look for him. Say, the Blue Ridge Mountains. And assign him a Secret Service detail."

The General nodded back, "Given his services, that sounds reasonable. Agreed."

Just then, someone knocked on the locked door to Chuck's room. Stephen called out: "Dad, are you in there?"

Chuck, still seated, looked past his Team and the General towards the locked door. "Now, if we're done for the day, there's someone very important I need to speak with."

General Beckman, Casey, and Abby left the room, opening the locked door, and Stephen entered.

"Hey buddy, what is it?"

"Was that Aunt Diane, Dad? I haven't seen her since Mom, you know."

"Yeah, that was Aunt Diane. She just wanted to stop in and say hi. What can I do for you?"

"Dad, after everything I saw. . . what I saw you do. Can you. . . um . . . teach me how to do what you do?"

Chuck gave his son a big smile, and rubbed the top of his son's head. "I can teach you some things. Where would you like to begin?"

Stephen's answer surprised him. "Dad, can you teach to me to code?"

Chuck smiled again: "I think we can work something out."

* * *

**January 9, 2023 Castle**

The weeks passed quickly, and the list of targets grew and grew. By the time Chuck was done, the number of physical targets surpassed 5,100. The number of financial targets exceed that by a hundred-fold. The die had been cast, the cards set, the drones routed, the bombers fueled, the attack squads gathered. The date was set: January 9, 2023.

Chuck, Casey, and Abby sat in Castle, observing the Big Board of targets. Mission operations were being run from the Pentagon. From the Joint Chiefs perspective, Chuck and his team had done their job: they provided the targets and the intelligence data to back up each selection. Even Beckman was largely out-of-the-loop, with the lead roles taken over by her superiors. By D-Day, their roles were limited to answering periodic questions about the data. That kept Chuck and his team confined to Castle, but with relatively little to do. So they sat, watching the Big Board, watching targets disappear worldwide. Every few seconds, another poof. Another celebratory cheer from the live link to the Pentagon. Another target off the Board. Rinse and repeat.

Chuck sat, numb, mired in his own doubt and guilt. "My greatest success. The pinnacle of my career. Lots of poofs. Each poof, more cheers, more dead," he remarked. Abby, sensing his pain, moved closer, periodically caressing and holding him. In a way, she helped. Sitting there, as Abby stroked his arm, Chuck recognized that he needed the reassurance, the physical comfort. But, at the same time, the closeness, and what it signaled, merely magnified a different kind of guilt in him – that his actions had driven feelings, emotions, which he couldn't possibly hope to reciprocate. _'I'm using her,' _he thought.

Casey soon tired of Chuck's self-hatred. "Chuck, quit it. Stop moping. You did a great thing."

Chuck nodded, but ignored him. "Casey, ever think that maybe, just maybe, I'm the villain in this story?"

"What the hell are you talking about?," Casey retorted.

"Think about it. I'm the one who lied to my family and co-workers for months. I'm the one who duped millions of people into downloading spyware. I'm the one who masterminded a grandiose plot for world domination. I'm the one camped out with his minions in a secret lair. If this was a comic book or a Bond movie, who would I be?"

"It's not a comic book or a movie, I'm not your minion, and your pity-party is going old. Besides, villains don't act out of altruism."

Chuck sighed. "Some do. And who said that my motives were totally pure."

* * *

**January 9th, 11:30 p.m. Apartment of Abby Cooper**

Abby Cooper initiated a telephone conference with General Beckman. After several rings, an exasperated General, dressed in pajamas, answered her call.

"Agent Cooper, what is the purpose of this conference. It's after 2 a.m. on the East Coast. Besides, principal operations have wrapped, but there's a lot of mopping up to do, and I have very little time."

Abby explained: "With this mission complete, I wanted to check on the status of our undercover assignment. Is it now back on the table?"

"This is what you got me out of bed for? You've got to be joking, Agent Cooper."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"At a basic level, the mission has been mooted. We eradicated the Arabian Salafist State yesterday. More generally, Charles Bartowski just took a program written by a pervert to pick up women and used it to wipe out approximately 85% of the intelligence threats this country faces. And, as far as I can tell, he did most of the work from his bedroom while sitting in his pajamas. If you think I'm going to risk his life doing undercover work, you must be delusional. If I could, I'd keep him bubble-wrapped for his own safety. Who the hell knows how many lives he'll save tomorrow? Or over the next 20 years?"

Abby looked questioningly at the General, unsure of her own future: "So what does this mean for me? Remember our deal, General."

"You will stay where you are. By Chuck's side. Offering him emotional support and physical protection. As Chuck might say, I am altering the deal. Pray that I don't alter it any further."

"What do you mean?"

"Can I be frank with you?," the General asked.

"Certainly. Don't bullshit a bullshitter."

"You've done well on this assignment. But this assignment catered to your rather unique background and skillset. For the most part, you are a mediocre agent. Your marksmanship is unreliable. Your judgment is slapdash. You lack caution and prudence, as proven most recently by this damn phone call. And, while it hasn't affected your work so far, your drinking and emotional instability worry me. More than that, your politics remain problematic for our work. Like it or not, the policy of this Administration – and every Administration – has been to support the territorial integrity of Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran. If that means shitting on your people, so be it."

Abby quickly interjected: "General, my people are the American people."

"Acknowledged. My point remains the same: without this assignment, without Chuck, where does that leave you? Probably back doing the seduction crap we had you doing in Latin America. Even then, your future looks grim. You are 32, almost 33. Slowly but surely, time and age will vanquish your looks and allure. You've got three years, maybe five, before we'd phase you out of seductions in favor of some fresher, more nubile piece of meat right off the Farm. And, unlike Carina Miller, don't think for a second that you'd find a soft-landing spot my moving up the ranks to a Section Chief or Assistant Director position. Those positions are for the best-of-the-best, not for the middle-of-the-pack. Be grateful for what you have here, Agent Cooper. From what I've seen, Chuck likes you. He depends upon you. There are far worst places to go for a terminal assignment. Now, good night."

The monitor went dark, and Abby Cooper stood alone in her apartment. Conflicting emotions battled in her mind. She went over to her cabinet, pulled out a half-empty bottle of Arak, and generously poured about five ounces into a tumbler. She took her first gulp and thought:

'_She said it. A terminal assignment: a "career posting." This life. Chuck. It was now my life. And a life without undercover work. Without wetwork. If the General could be believed, probably without any action at all. Just sitting around, watching a genius work. Maybe it won't be so bad. He's a true friend. My only friend. He speaks Sorani. He cares about me. With time, maybe there's hope for us. He's attracted to me. He won't say it, but I know it. I can see it. With time, the memories of his wife will fade. Not today. Not next month. But someday. Until then, I can abide the misery of not being with him. And I'll be here. But, in the meantime, the dullness. The boredom. No excitement. I'll miss it. The thrill of almost dying, the bliss of survivor's peace. Replaced by what? Fixing computers? Standing around while Chuck fixed computers? _

She looked down. Her drink was empty.

_God, I need another drink_.

She poured one.

* * *

**January 10, 2022 7:15 a.m.**

Chuck looked out at the rising sun, held immobile right above the horizon. He hadn't slept all night. A long day quarterbacking the worldwide assault flowed into an even longer night doing the same. Until the last few dots finally vanished from the board. Now, he stood on the empty beach, alone and barefooted, transfixed by the stubborn morning sun, which held steady as if fixed in place by the firmament of Genesis. He looked around. Not a single soul was anywhere.

He screamed, yelling at the waves:

"Now I have become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds!"

He paused a few seconds. Seeing that no one heard him, he yelled again, even louder:

"How many worlds? How many lives? 25,000? 35,000? Thousands of people, thousands of souls, alive yesterday, scattered to oblivion today. All because of me! Chuck, the Destroyer of Worlds!"

Just then, Chuck heard a familiar voice call to him in the distance.

"Shouting at the sea, Chuck?"

"Caligula launched a war on Neptune and sent his soldiers to attack the English Channel. Can't I at least scream at the ocean?"

"Caligula was insane, Chuck," the voice responded, this time a little louder, a little closer. It got closer with each passing word.

"And I'm not?"

"No, you're wonderful. You're caring. You're compassionate. And you did what you did to save lives. Yesterday, thousands of murderers and evil people died. Tomorrow, how many lives will you save? Over the next month? Over the next 10 years? And how many more lives did you improve, make better?"

Chuck turned towards the voice. There she was. The same crystal blue eyes, unchanged. The same enchanting smile, aged ever so gracefully. The same blond locks, now augmented by wisps of silver white. She wore a long, flowing, casual summer dress, colored golden to match her hair. A charm bracelet grasped her left wrist. A golden circle and a diamond rested upon her ring finger.

"You came," Chuck said.

"Of course," she responded.

"I'm a monster. A mass murderer. I've always been. I'm not a killer? Who am I kidding? I don't pull the trigger. But the analysis I give, the plans I've drafted, the strikes I've planned. Not just today. Going back fifteen years. The oceans of blood on my soul. My death count . . . "

Chuck stopped, and looked down. She had reached out, and began softly caressing his right hand.

"Nonsense. You're still the man I married. You're still _my _Chuck. You did a lot of good today. And the amount of good you've done in your life? It's without measure."

"Sarah, you didn't endorse it, this plan."

"Chuck, it was my idea."

"No, it was _her_ idea. You didn't endorse it."

"I see your point. I was worried about you. About what something on this scale would do to you. This job, this kind of work, it turned me cold. But your questioning, your guilt, your caring, your empathy for killers . . . it only proves how misplaced my fears were. You're a good man Charles Bartowski." She reached up and kissed his cheek.

"'_You may not build a House for my name, for you are a man of war and have shed blood.' _If David couldn't obtain redemption, how can I?"

She looked softly into his brown eyes. "Chuck, do you actually believe any of that?"

Chuck shook his head. "No, not really. I don't even know if David existed. It's just been on my mind. And not just everything that happened yesterday. I've been worried about you. The _life _you have_._ What it's been doing to you. How are you holding up?"

Sarah shrugged. "I've been managing."

"I feel guilty. We've had most of the information we've needed for months. But, to pull off what we accomplished yesterday, I needed you where you were . . . I needed _you_, filtering data for me."

She took her left hand, and slowly, gracefully traced it down the man's left cheek. "Chuck, what did I always say? One mission at a time. And what did Bogie say? The problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. This mission . . . it was more important than me, you, us."

"Don't hurry love until it pleases," Chuck added, prompting a smile from Sarah. Chuck then continued, a determined look upon his face:

"Well, it now pleases. . . America's enemies are defeated. Our enemies are defeated. It's time for you to come back. But the next steps? I'm dreading it. Ellie, Awesome, Casey, your Mom, others. We're going to need their help . . . to fill in the gaps in, well, you. They're going to be furious at the lies, the deception. And we still won't be able to tell them everything."

"Chuck, more than anything, they want you to be happy. They'll understand."

"And what do you want?"

"More than anything, I want the same. Beyond that, I want what you've made possible: to see my children grow up, get married, have kids of their own."

"Your children?"

"You know what I mean. They feel like mine."

"I know. You feel like . . . like _mine_. And _'I am my beloved and my beloved is mine._'"

The two held hands, embraced, and looked out at the waves.

Chuck then turned towards Sarah, and spoke: "I've got to go now. Ellie, Casey, the others. I've got several very difficult conversations to have."

"Goodbye, for now," she said.

Soon, the image of Sarah beside him faded away, along with the sand, the sea, and the strangely immobile sun. Chuck looked down, at the pair of virtual reality glasses he held in his hand. He turned to his left and to his right and saw only his bedroom. He smiled, then took a deep sigh. She wasn't Sarah. Not the original Sarah, anyway. But she was the closest he would ever see on this Earth. And he needed only a few more memories to complete her. Caught up in his own dreams and plans, he smiled again.

* * *

**A/N: so, for those who thought that Sarah was alive . . . nope! I've been hinting at that for awhile, and based on the reviews I know some of you already figured it out. As to what or who, exactly, "Sarah" is . . . a few more twists and turns are coming up. I think the story will have a happy ending, but it will be an unusual ending.**

**Also, if someone could please post this on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it. **

**Oh, and, of course, I like reviews. . .**

**Another note: I did, briefly, consider re-writing the story in the middle to come up with some scenario in which she was just in hiding to protect her family but . . . . those kinds of stories have been written many times (it's just a variant of "Sarah leaves"). I wanted to do something different. . . **


	21. Langston Graham: Magnificent Nerd

I'd like to apologize for some of the typos in the last chapter. It was a large chapter and in my excitement I might have rushed it out. They are fixed now.

A/N: I don't own Chuck. I don't own these characters. I'm not making any money off this.

* * *

_Previously on Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

Chuck: "I'll cut to the chase. The worm hit the motherload. It captured emails which mentioned her, references to her in mission reports, scraps of surveillance data from pre-Intersect missions, footage of her in meetings at Langley. It even found a top-secret project known as Project Revan. Ever hear of it General?"

General Beckman: "No, I'm afraid not."

Chuck: "I didn't think so. I don't think Sarah knew either. Just another of Langston Graham's little dark projects."

**Thanksgiving 2003, House of Langston Graham, Bethesda, Maryland**

Langston Graham looked down at his licked-clean dinner plate a satisfied man. The combination of Madge's roast turkey, sweet yams, corn bread, and cranberry sauces swirled delightfully in his gut. He had probably consumed 3000 calories in this sitting alone. Not something he could do on a daily basis. But once a year? He permitted himself to indulge. Besides the food, things were looking up.

The Iraq War had proven to be a swift success. And, while U.S. forces had yet to locate the weapons of mass destruction that CIA sources confirmed were there, Director Graham knew it was only a matter of time.

On a personal front, his elder daughter had just made Partner at a prominent Boston firm, and his younger daughter was finishing up Dartmouth. For the first time in three years, both were home for Thanksgiving. Even better, work was quiet enough that he could actually enjoy the time with his family. Especially Reggie, his six-year old grandson whom he doted on but rarely saw. Oh, the sacrifices made in his line of work. He looked around the table.

Madge, the eldest Sherrie, her husband Marco, and the youngest Juliet. . . But no Reggie.

"Sherrie, do you know where that boy has run off to?" he asked.

"Probably playing with his video games. You know boys that age."

Actually he didn't, Graham thought. He saw Reggie maybe four times a year. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Reggie's birthday, and the Fourth of July. And Graham's job didn't offer many opportunities to spend time with children. But he had today, tomorrow, and the whole weekend to spend time with Reggie. He would seize the time he had.

"I'll go find him," he remarked, as he got up from the table. He went looking around the house. He finally stumbled upon Reggie in the spare bedroom. Reggie had hooked up some kind of video game system to the television, and sat transfixed as surprisingly well-pixelated characters swung laser swords on the screen.

"Hi Reggie."

"Hi Abuelo."

Abuelo. It took some time getting used to. He would have preferred Grandpa. But Marco was intent on raising a dual-language son. And, intellectually, Graham knew Marco was right. Fluent Spanish would be an asset to the kid's future, even if teaching it to the boy meant that a few Spanish words currently bled into Reggie's English.

"Whatcha playing?" Graham asked.

"It's called Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic."

"I haven't played it. Why don't you tell me about it?," Graham inquired.

"Nah, I shouldn't . . ."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to ruin it for you. The secret. The twist."

"You know, Reggie, I deal with a lot of secrets at work. I think I can handle it."

"You sure it won't ruin the game for you when you play?"

"I'll take my chances," Graham remarked. He had no interest in the game, much less playing it. But he had an interest in Reggie. His only grandson, and the son he never had. And he had an interest in learning about what interested Reggie.

"Ok. You play this character Revan. At first, you think he's just an ordinarily soldier. Then he becomes a Jedi . . . But then you learn the whole truth. He was Darth Revan, the evil Sith Lord, Ruler of the Galaxy."

Graham smiled. "So, let me guess . . . he went undercover as a Jedi, to root out his enemies?,"

'_Hmph.. I might like this game after all_,' Graham thought.

"No, the opposite. The Jedi captured him. Wiped his mind. Implanted false memories, a false personality. Then they turned him against the Sith. What greater weapon is there than to turn an enemy to your cause? To transform an enemy into an ally?"

Graham's eyebrows shot up, and a look of wonder crept upon his face. A spark of inspiration hit him.

"What better way indeed. Reggie, why don't you tell me more about this game?"

* * *

**December 3, 2003; Office of Dr. Jonas Zarnow, NSA**

Director Graham opened the senior NSA scientist's office door, knocking on the inside of the opened door.

"Dr. Zarnow, have you got a minute?," he asked, stating his query in such a way that he made it clear it wasn't really a question.

"Of course, Director. What can I do for you?"

"What can you tell me about the Intersect project? I've read the files. But most have been destroyed or permanently redacted beyond comprehension."

"I'm surprised you don't know. It's years away, Director. But in brief, it's a planned supercomputer, designed to encode intelligence data from both the CIA and the NSA into ..."

Director Graham shook his head. It was his own fault. He should have been more specific. "No, no, no. Not the current project. I know about that. I meant the original project. When was it? Fifteen years ago? I understand that you worked on its development as a junior scientist."

Dr. Jonas Zarnow brought a pen to his mouth, as his mind sought to recollect the details. "Ah yes... I know what you are talking about. That project was a bust, a disaster."

"Tell me what you know."

"As you know, one goal of the current intersect project is to load intelligence data directly into the human mind. The original project was similar in some ways, but differed in a key detail. Instead of facts and figures, it sought to implant a false personality. To create the perfect deep cover operative."

"Yes, that's my general understanding as well. What happened?"

"We took an agent, a scientist, and implanted the personality of a criminal. The details were above my clearance, but – from what I know – the hope was that the false personality would enable the agent to establish an unimpeachable cover. The agent could then emerge at the appropriate time and take down an enemy organization. Unfortunately, it didn't work. The fake criminal persona took over entirely. We lost the agent."

Director Graham pressed the NSA scientist: "So it did work then? You actually succeeded in putting a completely different personality in a human brain?"

Dr. Zarnow shook his head and responded, with obvious sarcasm, "If you call losing an agent and fostering the career of a master criminal 'working' then, well, I suppose it did."

Director Graham grinned, excitedly. "I disagree. It sounds like you had the right idea, but the wrong approach."

"I don't understand," Dr. Zarnow replied.

Director Graham explained: "Instead of putting the mind of a criminal into an agent, you should have put the mind of an agent into a criminal. What greater weapon is there than to turn an enemy to your cause?"

Upon hearing the last line, Dr. Zarnow emitted a curious smile. "Director Graham, I have two young boys who love video games. Can I ask you - have you been playing KOTOR?"

Graham chuckled. "Guilty as charged. My grandson loves the game. And many of our best ideas come from fiction. Tell me, is it possible? Can we take the mind of one of our best agents, copy it, and implant it into a captured enemy operative? Effectively, send our agent undercover, inside the skin of an enemy? Can you do it?"

Dr. Zarnow looked, deep in thought. He needed to choose his words carefully. Over-promising would be the death of his career, at a minimum:

"It would take years to develop. We're nowhere close to having the technology to copy memories from the human brain. And, to actually complete the process, we'd need the coding and delivery mechanism from the data intersect, which is also years away from completion."

Director Graham shook his head, "You did this fifteen years ago, when our technology was practically Stone Age. Why do you need so much time now?"

Anticipating this inquiry, Dr. Zarnow quickly answered: "the original project involved a fictitious, skeleton-thin personality. Completely constructed by us. Totally two-dimensional. That may be one reason why the project failed. What you are asking is something completely different: to actually _copy _the mind of a real person, a real agent. We're not close to being able to do that."

Director Graham acknowledged the point, yet stayed insistent: "Fine, fine, fine. We're years away. Got it. But could you do it?"

Dr. Zarnow flashed the CIA director a shy grin. "Yes . . . I think I can."

"Good . . ."

Director Graham was going to say something, but Dr. Zarnow cut him off:

"However, I must warn you, Director. Even if we perfect the technology, you'd need the right agent. The right mind. If this works, the personality, the Intersect, would wake up in a completely different body – without any idea of what happened to him or her. The sheer shock of that would break most people, even many of your best agents. Beyond simply the strange body, the assignment would require the agent's mind to literally _become _another person. To inhabit their life completely, without missing a beat. And to then use that cover to infiltrate or assassinate without mercy."

"I'm aware," Director Graham answered gruffly.

"Director, in my opinion, you'd need a complete sociopath to pull this off. Someone who is simultaneously a perfect con artist and a ruthless killer."

Graham smiled. "As it so happens . . . I have just the candidate. Get to work, and keep me updated on your progress."

"What should we call the project?"

"I'm a sentimentalist. Let's call it Project Revan."

Dr. Zarnow started laughing. "Langston Graham. A Star Wars video game fan. I never would have guessed."

"Don't spread it around, Zarnow. Oh and, one more thing. Keep your NSA friends out of this. Report only to me. I'll arrange some special 'off-the-books' funding."

* * *

**March 2007, Langley **

Director Graham and Dr. Jonas Zarnow met in large windowed office on the second story of a medical laboratory, overlooking a lab below. Visible beneath them was Agent Sarah Walker, strapped to a gurney, as medical technicians hooked up a large cylindrical device to her head.

Director Graham looked down through the large windows at Agent Walker, and then turned his head to his lead scientist. He spoke.

"What's the cover you lined up for this procedure?"

Dr. Zarnow replied. "We told the subject that we're studying the effects of long-term field activities on the brain — the frequent concussions, the blows to the head, the exposure to tranquilizers and other unusual substances. To bolster the cover, we've called in 30 other agents for similar scans. Technically, I guess you could say it's not a cover . . . we're actually doing that research. And that's what I'm telling the NSA we're doing here. But Agent Walker is the only one getting the special scans."

"I'm not going to pretend to understand the science, but in layman's terms can you explain what exactly you're doing?" Director Graham asked.

Dr. Zarnow walked him over to computer monitor, which displayed a multi-colored model of Agent Walker's brain. Using a pen to point, he described what his technicians were doing on the floor below:

"In brief, we're using Intersect code to build a computerized model of her brain. The scans are copying the information contained in her neurons. Put another way, they are copying memories, senses, affections, emotions. All the details that make you, well, you. Unfortunately, we can't do it all at once. The process is grueling on the brain. The brain . . . it can only take so much at any given point in time, and it will need a long recovery period between scans. To be careful, we'd recommend at least a month."

Director Graham responded impatiently. "I don't want to risk any harm to Agent Walker coming from this but .. . . why not expedite the process? Why not just copy the memories we need? I don't care what flavor ice cream her father bought her as a little girl. I just want my Enforcer, downloadable at will into a captured agent."

Dr. Zarnow shook his head. "Director, you have to understand. This science . . . it's brand new. There's still a lot we don't know about the brain, including how and where memories are stored. Each scan, what it's picking up, it's somewhat random. On balance, recent memories get picked up first, perhaps because they are fresher. But, in any given scan, there will be gaps in the recent information, while random memories from childhood might get copied perfectly – say, for instance, a summer's evening spent catching fireflies. Besides, those early memories, they shape the later ones, they impact how a person looks at life, how a person makes decisions. Take them away, and there's no guarantee that what will emerge is the mind you want."

"Fine, how long do you need?," Director Graham responded, exacerbated.

"We estimate, and we stress estimate, that we'll need seven or eight scans to get a full model - a perfect, sentient copy of Sarah Walker. This is only the second one. In any event, until the main intersect, the intelligence data intersect, is complete – this project is useless."

Flummoxed, Director Graham pressed his scientist, "Why is that?"

"Two related reasons. At a most simplistic level, until the Intersect is complete we lack a delivery mechanism. We have no way to get Agent Walker's mind into a host. More deeply, at a coding level, the two kinds of intersect aren't that different — one contains intelligence data, the other contain details of Agent Walker's life - her memories, her experiences, her emotions, her way of looking at the world. . . Director, may I ask you . . . are you a religious man?"

Director Graham laughed, "I guess you could say that I don't believe in any _organized_ religion. I'm a Baptist."

Dr. Zarnow laughed, not because the joke was funny, but to flatter his benefactor. "As I was saying . . . what we're building. If you are religious, you might call it a digital replica of Agent Walker's soul. But whatever you call it, it's just a different form of data – much less data than the main Intersect, but data nevertheless. And, without the most updated coding from the main Intersect, the wiring and storage of that data into the host is going to be faulty. Even if we could deliver the data, we'd wind up with the brain fried corpse of a captured agent, not a useful implanted undercover operative."

Director Graham nodded. He understood.

"Don't worry, Director. By the time the new Intersect comes online, we should only need one or two more scans. You'll have your Revan by Thanksgiving."

"Thank you, Jonas."

"Oh. . . and Director . . . May the Force be With You."

Graham groaned. He would never live this down in front of that man.

* * *

**December 24, 2007; ****Langley****, Office of Langston Graham**

Sarah Walker stood outside the open door to Langston Graham's office, ready for her 10:30 a.m. appointment and debriefing. Director Graham lifted his eyes from some paperwork on his desk and noticed her. Immediately, his mood brightened and his eyes grew softer.

"Agent Walker, please come in, and Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, Director. Working on Christmas Eve?"

"An occupational hazard, I'm afraid. I hope to get out of here by noon. Oh . . . Madge wanted me to follow up with you, are you joining us for Christmas Dinner tomorrow?"

"Thank you, I'd be honored."

"Good. We look forward to having you. Now, enough with the pleasantries. Please give me an update on the status of your assignment. How would you assess the Intersect's performance?"

Sarah paused briefly, thinking carefully about the exact words to say in response to the Director's questions. She needed to acknowledge Chuck, and his contributions, without showing any hint that she had compromised herself. Formulating the right words, she answered:

"Well, he's not an agent . . . that much is clear. But for someone with no training, no background in what we do . . . I would assess his performance as exemplary." Upon saying the word "exemplary" she caught herself in the beginning of a smile, quickly readjusting her face towards to project a polite but expressionless appearance. Her Agent-face.

"I'm glad to hear it. The track record your team has racked up these past few months is impressive. And, on a personal level, between you and me, I like the guy." _True, Graham thought. He was an upstanding citizen, a fine American patriot, and a decent human being. Pretty soon, we'll need to put a bullet in his brain to protect our nation's secrets, but there's no harm in admitting personal affection for the man._ "Actually, I'm surprised to see you here now. I thought you'd be with him for the holidays, bolstering your cover."

Sarah had anticipated this line of inquiry, and began providing her canned response: "I discussed this with Major Casey and Chu . . the Intersect. As far as his family knows, we've been dating for three months and are 'taking it slow.' Given these facts, we all thought it would be best for the cover if I went 'home' to spend the holidays with my family, returning on the 28th. Major Casey will oversee surveillance while I'm gone, backed up by a local agent." _Damn, she thought. A canned response and I still almost slipped. Not good._

Catching Agent Walker's slip, Graham pivoted to what he anticipated would be a sensitive subject: "I understand from your reports that you've had some personal difficulties with the Intersect lately. He's expressed some romantic disappointment at the nature of your relationship, which has bled into his conduct on missions. Something about you flirting with a guy on a boat, or what not."

Sarah doubled-down on her expressionless Agent-face and answered, again supplying a carefully phrased canned answer: "Nothing I can't handle. As you know, the Intersect has feelings for me. To a point, those feelings are useful. He will do things _for me _that he wouldn't do for Major Casey, the CIA, or the NSA. But to maximize the Intersect's effectiveness, I need to tread a delicate line between keeping the relationship professional and giving the mark what he wants." _Sarah mused: basically correct, but is Chuck the mark? Or Graham? Chuck's not a mark. Not to me. _

Graham studied his agent. Her Agent-face accomplished the opposite of what she intended. From working with her, Graham knew that face. And he knew it was a defense mechanism. A concentrated effort by her to cover her emotions. But what was she covering? He opened a new line of inquiry, to gage her response: "You know, you are authorized to use _all available means_ to maximize the Intersect's performance. I trust you, Sarah."

'_Questioning why I haven't just slept with him. Subtle, Graham.' _she thought. She anticipated this question as well. Genuine relationships between Agents and Assets were forbidden. But using sex, feigning love, or providing a Girlfriend Experience to control Assets? Agents could employ those tools at their discretion. What mattered is that the Agent did not remain _emotionally_ compromised, and thus place the Asset's interests above the Agency's. Indeed, an Agent's unwillingness to deploy seduction-related tools could imply compromise. _'That's what Graham is hinting at,'_ Sarah thought, _'he wants to know why I don't I just give Chuck what we . . . what he wants, and use the lever of a relationship to control him for the rest of the assignment? He's worried about my reluctance. Is he right to worry?' _ Agent Walker answered with another prepared response:

"I appreciate that. But giving into the Intersect's desire for what he would perceive as a real relationship would be counterproductive." _Counterproductive to me. _

"How so?"

"As I mentioned, the Intersect doesn't understand our world. The duplicity, the dishonesty. If I indulged him in his romantic fantasies," _my fantasies_, "he would take it as a personal betrayal the next time I needed to flirt with or seduce a mark. His jealousy we can manage. But his feelings of betrayal would be a different matter. We need to maintain his trust. At the same time, if I definitively rejected him, I'd risk losing my ability to influence him. For the time being, I believe my current approach is best."

Graham studied his agent, more-or-less accepting her answer. It fit with Bartowski's psych profile. But something in the back of his mind irked him. He had no proof. Just suspicions. "Well, let's hope you're not there too much longer."

"What do you mean by that, Director?"

"Um. . . we'll find a way to get that thing out of his head one of these days. If not, once the new Intersect comes on-line, we'll have no need for his active participation in missions. We can replace you with a junior agent assigned to a pure protective detail."

In truth, he had already decided on Bartowski's exit strategy. He had also decided to keep Agent Walker in the dark. At a minimum, he knew that Walker considered Bartowski one of the good guys. No one liked killing good guys, even agents such as Walker who followed orders without question. And there was no reason to risk a good agent's psychological health without a need to do so. _"Let's let the NSA do the dirty work on this one. Casey is a soulless animal anyway." _And if he was right? No matter. A bullet in the Asset's brain would solve that problem as well.

Graham then turned towards the secondary purpose of this meeting:

"Sarah, while you're in town, make sure you have your annual physical. Oh, and be prepared to spend most of the day there - they're going to do another one of those brain scan thingys. I know it's unpleasant, all the agents are complaining about it, but the eggheads think this research is important."

"That project is still going on? I haven't heard about it since, well, shortly before leaving for Burbank."

"Ah yes... the lead scientist unexpectedly passed away a couple of months ago. A heart attack. Tragic. It took some time to secure a suitable replacement. Remind me again . . . how many of these scans have you had." _Not entirely inaccurate, Graham pondered . . . that traitorous weasel did die of a heart attack three days after his arrest. Just not an unexpected one. _

Sarah thought back, trying to remember how many of these scans she had before:

"Dunno exactly. I think it'll be my seventh."

* * *

**May 19, 2022 10:30 p.m. Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Charles Bartowski worked at his bedroom desk computer, examining the first fruits retrieved by Jeff's program. He was impressed. Already, Jeff's program had retrieved more than 3,000 emails, 1,300 other electronic documents, and over 400 hours of video clips. All relating to his wife. And all within the first five days after he unleased the worm. At this rate, it would take him a lifetime to study what the program would find. A lifetime he didn't have, even for an investigation as important to him as this one. He would need to scan the data, prioritize it. He got to work. It's a good thing he had no shifts at the Buy More the next day, he thought.

Seven sleepless hours later, he passed out on his desk and slept well into the morning. Upon arising, he grabbed a coffee and resumed his research. The next day, in late-afternoon, he stumbled upon a single, cryptic reference to Sarah's participation in a shuttered black ops research project. Sitting at his desk, he muttered under his breath. "What the hell is Project Revan?"

Intrigued, he spent the next several hours digging deeper. Fortunately, Jeff's program had already asked that question, answered it, and located prodigious quantities of material. Hundreds of files and a massive program now stood within reach of Chuck's fingertips, accessible with only a few key strokes.

From what Chuck could figure out, the project took a hit when the first Intersect was destroyed, faced another setback when Dr. Zarnow turned traitor, and ultimately got scuttled when the second Intersect blew up, taking with it both Director Graham and the remaining Project Revan scientists. Since then, the work, the program, sat. Almost complete. But buried. Forgotten. For some reason, the image of the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark came to his mind. Except, instead of being trapped in a nondescript box in a warehouse, Project Revan remained unnoticed . . . floating untouched in a tiny little corner of the CIA's vast database. _'What the hell does this have to do with Sarah?,' _Chuck thought.

Curious, he hit a few more keys, and pulled up a summary of the project's goals. It was a short document, only twenty pages. After reading the executive summary on the first page, he understood the Star Wars reference.

"_Project Revan. Huh. Langston Graham, you might have been a jackass. But you were also one unexpectedly magnificent nerd._"

He kept reading the materials. Chuck immersed himself in the document, reading it again and again. Trying to make sense of it. Then he came to Dr. Zarnow's crystalized description of the endgame:

"_A digital replica of Agent Walker's soul. Ready to be downloaded into any captured enemy operative." _

That's how Dr. Zarnow described the project. Was that even possible? What the hell did that even mean?

He soon located the program. A program which had sat dormant for over 15 years, and had never once being activated before then. Overcome with curiosity, he clicked "run." Nothing happened. Or so he thought.

* * *

Sarah Walker awoke in pitch darkness. No, she thought. That description doesn't quite capture it. "Awoke" implies awaking from sleep. For her, that's always meant a period of grogginess. A few minutes of shifting back-and-forth across the border between sleep and awake. This wasn't like that. She wasn't groggy. She had no transient period of sleepiness, no fragments of dreams. She wasn't even laying down. She was standing. How was she standing? She didn't know. And "pitch darkness" implies something like the night. But at nighttime, little scraps of reflected light puncture the darkness and provide some visibility. Not here, wherever "here" was. Here, it was all black. A void.

Trying to make sense of it, she thought that she must be in a locked cell somewhere. A cell with no windows and no source of light. She was captured and locked up. That explains it. That explains everything. Everything except herself. Looking down, she saw her arms, her legs, and her body perfectly. She even saw her clothing - a nondescript blue sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Her body wasn't radiating light, yet she could see. 'How can I see myself in this darkness?,' she thought.

She tried to assess her surroundings. She took a step forward, but her foot couldn't find the ground. Almost stumbling, she caught herself and moved her feet back together. 'No solid ground next to me. Am I on a ledge? How steep is the drop?' Ducking down into a crouch, she used her arms and hands to feel out the space around her. She felt nothing but air. No, that wasn't quite right either. There was no breeze, no substance to the space, just emptiness. Now trembling, she moved her right hand towards her foot. Then she put her hand _under_ her foot. She felt no floor, no ground below her. Only the same emptiness.

'How am I standing, not falling?' she thought. 'I can't be. None of this makes any sense. I must be dreaming. Unless. . . Could I be? Could I be dead? Is this the afterlife? An endless, empty, but conscious void?'

That didn't sound like any afterlife she could remember. She discounted the prospect.

'No, I can't be dead. Think back. Where was I? I was in that damn, infernal chair. Getting one of those awful brain scans. Did I fall asleep? Could I have been drugged? I don't remember that.'

'Do the dead feel pain?' she asked herself. She pinched her arm. "Ow!" she exclaimed.

'That hurt. Not dead. Unless... well, what does she know, what does anyone know, about what the dead feel? But that assumes I'm dead. I can't be dead. I would have remembered dying.

What's more likely?

I've been captured. I'm captured and I'm trapped in a room. That explains the darkness.'

But seeing herself in the darkness? And the emptiness, even beneath her feet?

'Drugs. I must have been drugged. I'm hallucinating.

But what next? Sit and stay and wait until I come down from whatever kind of high this is? No, not prudent. Who the hell knows what those drugs are doing to my body?

So what next?

I should scream. It's a longshot, but maybe someone is looking for me. Searching whatever base this is, wherever this is. Even if they aren't, maybe my screams will expedite whatever games my captors are playing - get them to come in here, tell me what they want me to know.'

Having settled on a strategy, she shouted as loud as she could. She tried to keep calm, but her voiced sounded like raw terror.

"Help! Anyone there! Get me out of here!"

* * *

Chuck sat at his screen. The program had been running for three minutes. So far, nothing. It was a bust. Oh well. What was he really expecting? He had no idea. But what he was hoping for? He didn't know that either. It didn't matter. Whatever the program was supposed to do, it didn't work.

Just then, he heard a voice screaming through his computer's speakers. Pleading for help. A voice filled with terror and desperation. And not just any voice. Her voice.

"Sssarah?" He asked audibly, utterly unsure of what he was asking, or to whom. His computer's microphone picked up the question.

* * *

"Sssarah?" One word. One single word. She couldn't trace the direction. It didn't seem to be coming from in front of her, behind her, to her side. Nor did it emerge from below her or above her. Instead, it reverberated all around her. One word, cascading through the endless void. And that voice, that amazing, sweet, comforting voice. She screamed back:

"Chuck? Is that you? Where are you? Where am I? It's dark here. Can you get me out? Chuck!"

* * *

Her questions, her pleas emerged from the computer. Sitting in his chair, Chuck focused. _"Don't freak out," _he said to himself under his breath. Deeper in thought, he faced the obvious truth:

'_Who am I kidding? I am definitely freaking out.'_

* * *

A/N: So hopefully this chapter answers some questions about Chuck's motivations. It's more significantly complicated than Chuck being infatuated with a virtual fantasy (although I realize the previous chapter may have given that impression). I'd call this chapter a wham! - but I suppose it's a matter of perspective. I said at the beginning that this story wasn't going to go the way people thought. . .

I debated whether to place this chapter here, or after Chapter 12 (our first introduction to "Sarah"). I think it works better here. I kind of liked playing with the mystery of Sarah, and didn't want to completely give up the theme of the story ("Chuck as a widower") too early. But I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts. I suppose the story's feel, for better or worse, would have been very different if I dropped this reveal earlier.

Chronologically, the scene in the middle between Sarah and Graham takes place after "The Crown Vic." Given the show's internal chronology, the Buy More Christmas Party would have happened shortly after Thanksgiving in early December (like most corporate Christmas parties). This scene also "fills in a gap," and explains some second season dialogue which implies that Sarah didn't spend Christmas in 2007 with the Bartowskis.

Btw, I think there are about 5 chapters left, including the epilogue. But that's just an estimate.

Finally, one last favor - can you please post this to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group? I'd like to really thank the people who've been doing it the past few chapters!


	22. Sarah Walker: Ghost in the Machine

**A/N: I don't own Chuck, or these characters. I'm not making money off this.**

* * *

Sarah cried out from the void:

"Chuck? Is that you? Where are you? Where am I? It's dark here. Can you get me out? Chuck!"

Sitting in his chair at his bedroom computer desk, Chuck heard her questions, her pleas, her demands for answers. He focused. _"Don't freak out," _he said to himself under his breath. Deeper in thought, he faced the obvious truth:

'_Who am I kidding? I am definitely freaking out.' _

Drops of sweat dripped down his cheek. For a brief moment, Chuck considered deactivating the program. But his racing internal monologue quickly quenched such thoughts. _'Is it true? Did Zarnow do it? Is it, is she, sentient? What would happen if I turned her off? I can't take that risk. Not if, especially not if, a part of her is Sarah.'_

_But if deactivation wasn't an option, he needed to respond to it, __to her__: _

"Um . . . hi Sarah. it's a little hard to explain."

From within the void, Sarah heard that voice. His voice. It boomed through the nothingness surrounding her. And, while the sound of his voice comforted her, it only added to her bewilderment. She responded, crying out to the emptiness: "Chuck, I don't care about an explanation, just get me out of here!"

Sitting at his computer desk, Chuck sighed. _'What have I done? Did I create something? Did I create her, spring her into existence? But only to trap her in, well, I have no idea." _

He responded: "I can't."

Sarah screamed: "What do you mean you can't? I've been drugged or something, and I'm kinda freaking out. Get me out of here Chuck!"

Chuck listened. His mind raced again. How could he possibly explain this? He couldn't. He wouldn't believe it if he was in her position. _Her _position? Is the program really even a her? And, if it's a her – if it's _her_ – what could he possibly do to comfort _he_r? The Sarah he knew put on a brave face. For _he_r to admit that she's freaking out? Spinning around more, he realized that he still hadn't responded to her. To _her_. He felt it in his bones. Just a few words, but it felt like _her. _Instinctively, he looked at the clock. It was 2:13 a.m. _'At least Stephen or Ellie isn't going to walk in on this,'_ he thought. Then he banished such thinking from his mind. He needed to focus. Come up with something to say. Something to fill up the silence. That voice. _Her voice_. For three years, it had been missing from his heart. But the circumstances. They were beyond bizarre. _Her_ voice, it was terrified. And it was his fault. Because he activated the program without thinking. One click. One simple click. And he was pretty sure that something very much like his wife had sprung into an unnatural existence. But what words could he possibly use? How could he possibly answer _her_?

He spoke: "You're not drugged. Um . . . how do I explain this? You're, um, dead."

He finished speaking and immediately smacked his own forehead. _'Ok. Way to calm her down. Bad choice of words. What the hell Chuck? Get in the game.' _

'_Dead?,' _Sarah thought. That didn't make any sense. She didn't remember dying. And that voice, it sounded like Chuck. But Chuck wouldn't toy with her, play with her, this way. That left two options: (1) either Chuck had been captured, and was being forced to go along with this insanity; or (2) that wasn't the real Chuck. She took a deep breath. Or, at least, she thought she did. _'Am I actually breathing?_,' she briefly pondered, before settling herself. For now, she would play along.

She answered: "What? So that's the game? I'm supposed to be dead? And you're what, the disembodied voice of St. Peter, here to cart me to the afterlife?"

Chuck almost fell backwards in his chair. In his panic, he didn't quite catch the sarcasm in her voice. He wasn't sure what response he was expecting. But this wasn't it:

"Wha . . . no. I'm not St. Peter. It's me . . . it's Chuck."

Sarah took in his words, booming through the void. _'So he says he's Chuck. Of course, he does. What did I expect? Him to say, 'hi, I've been captured and there's a gun at my back'? or 'hi, I'm a Fulcrum traitor using a voice modifier?' But his voice. . . it sounds like Chuck. And there's terror in it. But not 'afraid for my life terror.' Something else. None of this make any sense.'_

She responded to the cascading, formless voice: "Why are you working with them? Did they get you too? What kind of Fulcrum trick is this?"

'_Crap.'_ Chuck thought. _'Makes sense. It's what Sarah, what Agent Walker would think. . . she thinks she's been captured and this is some kind of elaborate interrogation. I guess I'll tell her it isn't, but why would she believe me? I'm just a disembodied voice. And she's, well, I have no idea where exactly she is, from her perspective.' _

Chuck replied, attempting to calm her: "Wha. . . . no, I'm not Fulcrum either. I'm tryin. . .'

Sarah cut-off the voice: "Right. How do I even know who you are? For all I know, you're a Fulcrum team, talking through a voice modifier. I can't see you. I can't see anything. What kind of interrogation technique is this? Get me high on drugs, confused, and freaking out so that I'll talk? Talk to what, exactly? Whoever you are, can't you speak to me face-to-face? This whole voice-in-the-nothingness thing is creepy.""

A small spark of realization gripped Chuck. He had read the files, including the interface options. But it had taken a few minutes, and her words, to process them. Something in Zarnow's notes – about the different ways the program could be activated, and interacted with, for limited periods. '_He built trap-doors into the Intersect, to teach it things. If I link her to an avatar, she'll at least be able to see something, speak to something.' _

"Sarah, hold on. . . I might be able to fix at least that part."

Chuck quickly typed on his keyboard, searching for something he could use as an avatar. Finding an option, he linked the file to the Intersect construct of Sarah Walker.

"Hi," Chuck said.

Sarah turned around. Startled at first, she quickly began laughing uncontrollably at the image in front of her. Attempting to stifle her laughs, she spoke: "So you're a . . ."

She looked at the image speaking in front of her. It was a 4-foot tall, red-haired dwarf, with a long flowing, bushy beard, chain mail armor, and a pitched silver battle axe.

"Oh, this. The dwarf. It's the best I could do on short notice. It's my old World of Warcraft avatar. I linked it to, well, that's not important now." Chuck said, speaking from his chair into the computer.

Sarah laughed again, taken in by the absurdity of the situation. Instinctively, she grew calm and her mood brightened. This dwarf. It was pure Chuck. The real Chuck. And she doubted that Fulcrum would have been imaginative enough to torture Chuck into putting such a ridiculous image in front of her. But, if this is the real Chuck, and Fulcrum wasn't forcing him to do this, then what the hell was going on?

"Chuck, it really is you, isn't it? Where am I?

"Sarah, we'll get to that but, to begin, can you let me know what day you think it is?," Chuck responded. Before saying anything more, he wanted to confirm where the program's, where Sarah's, memories ended.

"I don't know. . . exactly. How long have I been here? The last thing I remember was getting my annual physical at Langley."

Chuck pressed, lightly: "What year is it? What's the last thing you remember?"

Sarah jumped, a little taken aback by Chuck's question. If this was Chuck. She was starting to have her doubts again: "You're joking, right? I saw you four days ago. Right? Before I left for D.C.? It's late-December 2007. Unless I've been here more than a few days. Is it January already?

"Sarah, it's 2022."

"_Fifteen years?_" Sarah's skepticism magnified. She hadn't lost fifteen years of time. Double-checking her own senses, she looked down at her own body. Her hands, her breasts, her legs. It was still same body she remembered. She hadn't aged a day, much less fifteen years. If anything, she looked _good_. Much better than usual. But why would Chuck lie to her? Unless, again, this wasn't Chuck.

Chuck grasped the subtext of Sarah's words. "You don't believe me, right? You don't quite believe I'm Chuck. . . You're still wondering if this is some kind of Fulcrum interrogation technique."

Sarah nodded. But Chuck picked up only silence. She could see the dwarf. But he just saw a nondescript computer screen. After ten seconds of uncomfortable silence, he responded:

"You nodded, didn't you? Sarah, I can't see you . . . not yet. I'll find a way. But, for now, can you remember to speak?"

"If you can't see me, how did you know I nodded?" Sarah asked, inquisitively.

"Because well . . . I know you. For a long time. You don't quite believe I am who I am, do you?"

Sarah nodded.

"You're nodding again, aren't you?"

"Yes, sorry. I forgot."

"It's ok. I'd tell you I'd understand but, well, I'd be lying. I don't understand. I don't think anyone can really understand what you're going through now."

Hearing those words, even from an absurd computer-generated dwarf, Sarah immediately felt comforted. _"He always knows the right thing to say, doesn't he? Stop it, Sarah. Those feelings. He's still an asset." _she mused to herself.

Chuck continued, "But I can at least put your mind at ease about Fulcrum. I'm going do what Fulcrum wouldn't. I'm not going to ask you questions. I'm going to tell you . . . well, things. Things that only we would know. Things that, if Fulcrum knew them, they'd have no reason to question you. For starters, I'm Charles Bartowski. The human Intersect. And you? Well, you were born Diana Lisa Pulaski, daughter of Emma Williams and Jakub Pulaski. Of course, I've always known your father as Jack Burton."

The comfort dissipated, and waives of terror-struck Sarah. Chuck didn't know her birth name, or anything about her family. Heck, the CIA didn't know. Fulcrum certainly didn't know. So how did 'Chuck,' or whoever this was, know?

Hesitantly, she responded: "Chuck, how . . ."

"I'm getting to that. In September 2007, you were assigned to me as my CIA handler, after your ex-partner and boyfriend Bryce Larkin sent me the Intersect. You mentioned that you think it's December 2007. Well, then, from your perspective, you've been part of a joint CIA-NSA task force for the past few months. And to you, I'm still just a dufus nerd with a big heart that you've been fighting to suppress your feelings for."

Sarah immediately jumped in: "Chuck, we spoke about this. I'm your handl. . ."

Chuck sighed quickly, but then cut her off: "Sarah, it's 2022. It's ok. This whole 'you not having your memory,' that I do understand. It's kind of our thing. But the short story is that you haven't been my handler for a long time. We got past those hurdles a very long time ago. You were my wife. For eight years."

"What?" Sarah jumped back from the dwarf in shock.

"And then . . . you died," Chuck said.

'_Curiouser and curiouser. What rabbit hole have I spiraled down Sarah?' _she asked herself. Everything he said – if anything, it was more bizarre than this place. Crazier than this void. _'If I'm dead, why don't I remember the last 15 years? My knowledge of world religions is a little shoddy, but I can't think of any postured afterlife where a dead person keeps their memories, but only up until age 27.' _

She quizzed _'Chuck,' _or whomever this was: "So not only is it 2022. Not only am I dead. But you're telling me that I married my asset? So I'm a dead woman with amnesia? How does that work exactly?"

Chuck sighed again, but his face emitted a quiet smile. _'The questions. The ferocity. The skepticism. It's all . . . Sarah. Did Zarnow actually do it? My god, how I've missed talking to her. Even this awful, ridiculous conversation.' _

"Sarah. The disbelief. I get it. Heck, if I was where you. . . what you are . . . well, my girlish screams would be through the roof. I don't know how to really explain it to you, but, if you agree, I'd like to show you something. Well, not really show. More like upload . . . give you access. Would that be ok?"

"What to you want to show me?" Sarah responded, curiously.

"Your personnel file."

"Chuck, how is a cartoon dwarf going to hand me a personnel file?"

"I'll get to that. But first, do I have your consent?"

Sarah nodded.

"You're nodding again, aren't you?"

"Yes, sorry. You have my consent."

Sitting at his computer, Chuck made a few mouse clicks, dragged a few files, and quickly uploaded Sarah's CIA personnel file to the Intersect construct.

From within the void, Sarah flashed. Or, at least, she thought she flashed. She felt the way Chuck looked. The rush, the burden, of hundreds of images pouring into her brain. The pounding against her skull. The feeling of her eyes rolling into their sockets. And then, the knowledge. Just _there_, accessible.

"Arghh. . . Chuck, what did you do? Did I just flash?"

"Um, I really have no idea."

"I felt my eyes rolling and my skull pounding, then saw hundreds of images. And now, it's like I _know _what was in well, whatever the hell it was. But I never _saw _the personnel file you mentioned"

"Sounds like a flash. Maybe the first thing that hasn't surprised me. It's what I've been trying to say. Trying to get at. With complete incompetence. You aren't Sarah . . . not the original one anyway. You're, well, an _Intersect_. . . That's what those brain scans were. They were copying your mind. It was Langston Graham's idea. He built you as a weapon. He copied Sarah's mind, hoping to download her, download _you_, into the brains of captured enemy operatives. Then he could send you back, a completely loyal assassin, behind enemy lines, in an enemy's body. The perfect cover. I didn't have to show you your personnel file because, well, I could _upload_ it to your program."

"So you're saying that I'm a computer program? That I'm dead? That fifteen years have passed? That I have two children? That I married my asset? That I married my cousin?"

"What?" Chuck almost fell-over in his seat.

"You never noticed the genetic scans in my personnel file? It cross-links with yours. We share about 1% of the same DNA. And . . . hold on . . . we shared a set of great-great grandparents in common. Janek and Magdalena Kowalski, from Krakow, Poland. We're third cousins."

"That's um, disturbing. And, kinda hot in a very confusing way. But how . . . _I didn't know that_. Heck, I didn't even know the names of my ancestors going back that far. And Sarah . . . Sarah knew less about her family than I knew about mine."

"The genetic scans, they link to CIA ancestry records, which link to your records. I just _thought _about it, and I _accessed _it from, well, wherever I am. Because . . . my God. Everything you're saying is true, isn't it? I'm not Sarah, am I? I'm just a dumb piece of software, aren't I?" Sarah sat down, and rubbed her hands into her forehead. _'What the hell am I? And what the hell am I going to do? I could use a drink. But there aren't any drinks here, are there? There isn't any anything here.' _

Chuck responded quickly, decisively. "You're more than that. Just talking to you, I know it. The scientist behind the program," Chuck purposefully avoided mentioning Dr. Zarnow's name, "he described the process as creating a digital replica of Sarah's soul . . . your soul. Whatever you are, you're sentient. And your thoughts, your memories, your emotions . . . it's all Sarah. All you."

Sarah smiled. _'Even when I'm trapped in shadows, that man always knows the right thing to say. And, fuck it. If I'm dead and everything he said is true, I don't need to fight it anymore." _

"How did I end up here . . . wherever here is?" Sarah asked.

"A few months after your last scan, Graham died. The project that was working on you got disbanded. Forgotten. You were just sitting there, undisturbed. Unnoticed, when I stumbled upon the program, upon you. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. I missed you. I missed you so much. I pressed a button. And I activated you."

"So, in a manner of speaking, I owe you my life, Chuck? My very existence?" Sarah said, flirtatiously. _'Being dead is kind of freeing, in a way.' _

"Um, that's not what I meant. I was, um, kind of apologizing. For putting you in well, wherever the hell you are."

"Chuck, I'm not sorry that I'm alive. Or that I'm talking to you. But where do we go from here? You can't see me. Can't see it. But it's empty here. It's nothingness."

"I don't know, but I'll find a solution. For now, can I at least keep you company?"

"Sure, I'd like that."

Several hours passed, as Chuck spoke into his computer, and Sarah responded by speaking to a four-foot tall cartoon dwarf which carried Chuck's voice. They laughed. They exchanged stories. And Sarah, as terrified as she was by the whole situation, quickly let down her walls. But, as night turned to dawn, Sarah noticed the change in tone coming from the dwarf. The yawns. The increasingly meandering, tired mind. She _thought_ of the time, and found that she could quickly access it.

"Chuck, I hear it in your voice. You're exhausted. It's . . . _it's 6 a.m., Chuck?_"

"I can't leave you, like this. In the void."

"You can't help me if you're falling asleep. I'll manage. It looks like I have fifteen years to catch up on."

"Sarah."

"Enough. Go to sleep."

"Ok. I'll be back, I'll promise. And I'll find a way to help you. But, there is one thing. . ."

"What?"

"Your voice. I love hearing it. But we can't just speak like this, freely, back and forth. There are other people in this house."

Sarah understood. Chuck had mentioned living with Ellie and Devon again. "And Ellie and Devon would go into shock if they walked in on you having a conversation with a dead woman, right?," she answered.

"Worse. Our children." Chuck replied.

"Oh," Sarah said. She had read about them in the file, and heard a few stories about them from Chuck during the night. But she hadn't internalized it. _'I was a mother. I will be a mother. Damn tenses. The original Sarah, she was a mother._'

Chuck continued, "They are still so young. They wouldn't understand. At best, we'd confuse them . . . at worst."

"We'd feed childhood delusions about how maybe their mother isn't really dead?," Sarah said, finishing Chuck's sentence.

"Right. We need to be careful. We can only talk when we're secure. Your program. It was designed with a text messaging prompt. With just a _thought_ you should be able to text me, and to _'hear_' my replies. I mean, if it works. I just read the file."

A text message popped up.

_Casper: I'm trying it. Did it work? _

Chuck laughed.

_Chuck: I never was much of the cartoon. But we'll need better covers. I've been working with Jeff Barnes lately on a piece of software._

_Casper: Oh my god. This is weird. I can hear you. In my mind. It's your voice. But it's not a voice, exactly. More like I just 'learned' what you typed. You did type, right? Something about working with Buy More Jeff? That creepy pervy guy? _

_Chuck: Yeah. A lot has changed. And some things haven't. For now, when we chat like this, can you use a handle that I can pass off as Jeff, if someone walks in?_

_Casper: You're asking me to pretend to be Jeff Barnes? Did we have marital issues that I should know about? _

_Chuck: Gross, nothing like that._

_Casper: I'm kidding. What name should I use? _

_Chuck: Missile Commander._

* * *

A/N: So now everything's out of the bag. About 4-5 chapters left. The posting schedule might get a little erratic though. Lots of work at my real job. I noticed that readership dropped about 40% after the big reveals two chapters ago. I'm guessing that some readers were hoping I'd find a way to bring the original Sarah back from the grave. That's not the story I was writing. But, of course, I more than understand that this story isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea. Also a bit ironic, because this chapter and the last few chapters are probably the closest I'll ever come to writing Charah. That said, the more I think about it, the story might have been better if I dropped "Langstom Graham: Magnificent Nerd" after Chapter 12 and then more organically integrated this story line into the other story lines. You live, you learn. This is my first long story, and probably my only long story.

If someone could post this to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it.


	23. Messages Through The Void

**A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this****.**

* * *

Chuck stood, gazing out the hotel window. Peering down, he watched the moonlight cast its glow upon the ageless rooftops and canals. He felt her warmth, as Sarah surprised him from behind. She pressed herself into his back, enveloping her arms around his body, grasping his hands. Hugging him tightly. Looking down directly, Chuck saw the moonlight reflecting off her engagement ring.

"Your first time in Venice, right?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, turning around to face her. The moonlight filtered through the window and lit up her crystal blue eyes.

"Well, we have two hours to kill before the mission. Why don't we christen this room properly?," she said seductively. She detached her hands from his, reached behind her neck, and unclasped her crimson dress. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked in front of him.

Chuck's eyes followed the falling dress, taking in every inch of her. Her breasts. Her belly button. To preserve his anticipation, he stopped his glare just above her waist. He closed his eyes, moved his head down, then reopened his eyes to contemplate her feet. Slowly, his pupils followed her legs upward. First, her shins. Then, her knees. Soon, he found himself staring upon her perfect thighs. Forcing himself to pass them, his continued his visual journey further up. That's when he saw it. Right at the point where her legs _intersected_. Her USB access port.

"Arghh," he said, in shock, backing off.

"What is it Chuck? Aren't we still compatible? Don't you have a big, strong cord down there, just for me?" she asked, reaching out with her hands to grab at his trousers. She continued, persistently: "I know wireless is all the rage these days, but I'm an old-fashioned kind of girl. I love a good physical connection." She unzipped his fly, put her right hand inside, and started yanking. "Oh baby, what do have for me today? A good six inches, at least?" she asked, before pulling a USB cord inch-by-inch from his pants.

Chuck screamed in terror: "ARGGGHH!"

* * *

**May 22, 2012; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck awoke in his bed, covered in sweat. Sunlight peered in through the window. He gazed at the clock. It was 11:36 a.m. _'Third night in a row. Every night since I activated her. The same dream.' _he mused. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, then his forehead. He pulled himself off his bed, and made his way to his computer. He logged on immediately. Casey was going to be pissed. His review of the morning dailies was due each day at 11:00 a.m. And that included Sundays. Bad guys didn't take breaks on the weekends, and neither did he.

While his computer connected to the NSA's VPN, Chuck grabbed his cellphone. A quick scan of his messages confirmed his suspicions about Casey.

_11:02 a.m. Casey: Chuck, your report is late. _

_11:07 a.m. Missed Call Casey _

_11:13: a.m. Casey: Chuck, lives are literally depending on you. _

_11: 17 a.m. Missed Call Abby_

_11:18 a.m. Abby: Chuck, is everything ok? _

_11:23 a.m. Missed Call Casey _

_11:27 a.m. Casey: Chuck, you better be captured and hanging from a rusty pipe right now. Or I'll kill you. _

_11:33 a.m. Casey: And, after I kill you, I'll mutilate your body. _

_11:35 a.m. Casey: I'm not kidding. A stuffed nerd head would look great on the wall of my study. Next to the moose I killed last October. I call him Bullwinkle. You can be Rocky. _

Chuck quickly texted them both back:

_Chuck: Sorry, rough night, rougher morning. The dailies will be done within an hour. _

He flipped his eyes back to the screen. His VPN connection was successful, and he began scanning the dailies for flashes. Fortunately, this was a light day. He might actually get done in an hour. Even though his head was killing him. And he needed coffee. God, he needed coffee. But he no time to make it. He pressed forward and, after two light flashes, got the dailies done within 55 minutes.

He was just about to log-off when the prompt came in:

_Missile Commander: Chuck, are we secure? I didn't want to interrupt your work. _

Chuck smiled. He hated to admit it to himself, but he liked talking to _it_, to _her_. _'To her,' _he confirmed to himself, _'even if it's not quite her.' _ To be sure, parts of their interactions confused him, even terrified him. His recurring dream was proof enough of that. But each night, as they spoke, he felt the crushing weight of his own loneliness grow lighter. It was still there. It probably would always be there. But it was _less_. And he liked that feeling. More than that, he felt responsible. It was his own foolishness, his carelessness, that activated her. That thrust her into an utterly unnatural existence with nothing but a void surrounding her. So, just as she filled a small part of the gaping emptiness in his heart, he could at least try to provide her with some comfort, to soften the trauma of her own quite literal emptiness. At least until he could find a permanent solution. Whatever the hell that was or would be, he had no idea.

'_But is it just guilt? Is it just my sense of responsibility? Is it . . . caring? Do I care for her? If I do, how screwed up is that?' _he pondered. Breaking out of his own thoughts, he realized that he owed her a response.

_Billy Batson: Not secure. It's a Sunday. Kids are here. And, I've got a shift at my day job in an hour. _

_Missile Commander: Ok. Understood. Who is Billy Batson? _

_Billy Batson: It's a comic book character. A fourteen-year-old boy who can transform himself into a grown-up man with superpowers. Ellie's son, Peter, says I look like him. I needed a new handle. _

_Missile Commander: A boy in a man's body with superpowers. Does he ever remind you of someone?_

_Billy Batson: I don't think I look that much like him._

_Missile Commander: I didn't mean looks. Why are you so adorable? And can we talk tonight, please? _

Chuck studied her last message. The _please_. It signaled neediness. But Sarah wasn't needy. Not the original Sarah. And, from what he had observed, not her digital replica either. Something was up.

_Billy Batson: Everything ok?_

_Missile Commander: Yes. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. _

Chuck immediately began worry. Those were classic Sarah tell-words. Something was definitely up. But he knew better than to press.

_Billy Batson: We should be good after 11:30 p.m. Everyone will be in bed then. I'll be at my desk. _

_Missile Commander: Ok._

* * *

**May 23, 2022 11:30 p.m.; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

_Billy Batson: We're secure. And sorry about last night, I um, got hung up. What did you want to talk about? _

"It's nothing, and I get it, I'm just a computer program. I can't interfere with your real life. You have more important things to do." Sarah said, speaking out loud.

"Wha? You think that's why I couldn't talk last night? I got kidnapped." Chuck responded, now appearing to Sarah in the form of his World of Warcraft dwarf avatar.

"Oh my god! Chuck! What happened?" Sarah asked.

"It's nothing really. I was hanging out with Morgan, and two goons pulled guns at us, ordered us to come with them. They wanted a smallpox vial that we stole together with Morgan during a mission a few years ago."

"Morgan, your friend Morgan, went on a spy mission and helped us steal smallpox?" Sarah responded to the dwarf, with utter disbelief.

"Yeah. You've got a lot to catch-up on."

"Clearly. But you still haven't explained how you got free?" Sarah said, pressing.

"Oh. That. Pretty simple, really. Abby snuck up from behind them and shot them."

"Abby? Who is Abby?" Sarah inquired to the dwarf, her voice quivering just a bit.

"Oh. She's our new partner. Casey and Beckman ordered her on-board, to take over your old role." Chuck responded. Then he immediately banged his head against his desk. _'That didn't come out right,' _he thought.

"My old role? In _how many ways_ Chuck? I take it she's attractive?"

"Wha? I mean, she's ok. But I don't see her like that. I didn't even want her on the team."

"Chuck, your blabbering. Can you give me a picture of her?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious."

"Ok. Give me a few secs. . ." Chuck hit a few keys, and loaded the headshot from Abby's personnel file into Sarah's Intersect matrix. Sarah absorbed the new information, triggering a mini-flash. Not like the pounding against her skull. More like a tickle on her brain. One photograph was only a small amount of data.

"Damn." Sarah said. _'Did I say that out loud?'_ she thought to herself.

"What is it?"

'_Must have said it out loud,'_ she realized. _'So be it. No point in hiding things anymore.'_

"She's attractive," Sarah expressed.

"Sarah Walker, are you jealous of my new partner?"

Sarah took a deep breath. Or, at least, what she perceived as a deep breath. Knowing they overcame their issues, got married, it helped her lower her defenses. But it didn't eliminate them.

"Maybe a little?," she squeaked.

"Well, you have nothing to be jealous about. . . but that's not why you were upset the other day. You didn't even know about Abby then. What's up?" Chuck responded.

"Oh, that. I told you, it's nothing."

"I know you, it's something," Chuck responded from his computer desk, speaking to Sarah through his cartoon dwarf avatar.

"It's just, I missed you. I know that's silly. I spoke with you the night before. But you've always been good company. And, while you're out gallivanting with your fleshy green-eyed partner, it's lonely here."

Chuck nodded his head instinctively, although he knew Sarah couldn't see him. She was telling the truth. But, he sensed, not the whole truth.

"There's something more, isn't there? Beyond being lonely? Or whatever you think might be going on with Abby?" Chuck asked.

"Ugh. This is hard. I'm not good at admitting. . ."

"When you're vulnerable." Chuck said, jumping in.

Sarah scowled sharply at the cartoon dwarf. Chuck _knew _her. Far better than he did a week ago. Right, it wasn't a week. She had to keep telling herself. It had been fifteen years. _'Of course he knows me. Idiot. We were married. Or she was married. It's all so confusing.' _She stared intensely at the ginger, bushy-bearded dwarf and responded.

"Yeah. I guess you could say that I'm having some trouble keeping it together. And I don't just mean the whole 'I'm the digital replica of your dead wife thing, although that was pretty hard to take in. There's nothing here but literally _nothing_. Nothing is everywhere. More than that – I don't sleep, I don't even get sleepy. I don't get hot or cold. I don't get hungry or thirsty. I don't even need to use the bathroom. About the only sensation I feel is pain, when I pinch myself. I've been pinching myself a lot lately, to feel _something_."

"I know. It's my fault. I found you. I activated you."

"Chuck, stop apologizing. Before you, I didn't even exist. And, our talks each night, they give me something to look forward to. But I've been meaning to ask you, how did you find me?"

"You're probably not going to believe me."

"Try me."

"Jeff Barnes – Buymore Jeff. He sobered up several years ago. It turns out that, once you removed the booze and fumes, the guy was brilliant. Anyway, he wrote a computer problem that recognizes emotions. He was using it to pick up women. We're actually working together to sell a commercial version. That's the software I mentioned the first night we spoke. Who knows, the thing might sell a couple million copies."

"You weren't kidding about the surprise. The thought of Jeff Barnes picking up women? Yikes." Sarah said, shaking her head in disgust. Chuck laughed a little.

"You're right. Long story short, I purchased the source code from Jeff. Well, not me exactly, more like the NSA. But, in any event, it turns out Jeff hadn't quite figured out what he created. Somehow, he created an AI that could search for things and sort them into categories. He was using it to sort facial expressions and other forms of non-verbal communication into different emotional states. I wanted to test the power of the program. So I tasked it with searching the CIA's and NSA's database for you. I mean, not you. But information about you. About her."

Sarah looked skeptically at the dwarf: "I see. I don't believe you."

"Huh?"

Sarah continued: "You could have tested the program a thousand ways. You chose to hack the CIA and NSA databases to search for information about me? Truth, Chuck? I've showed you mine. You show me yours."

Chuck sighed at his desk. "You're right. The truth is, I've missed you terribly. And, even after eight years of marriage, you still had your secrets. There were a lot of things about your past that I didn't know. That I never asked you. And, if you were here, I never would have asked you. Because I didn't care. Your past never mattered to me. You were my wife, and I accepted you with my entire mortal soul. But, it's going to sound silly. . ."

"What, what is it Chuck?," Sarah responded, not quite sure if she was angry at him for prying into her past. She felt like she should be, but the whole situation was just so screwed up.

"I was hoping that, if the program could pry loose some new pebbles of information _about _you, maybe I'd feel closer _to _you."

Sarah felt her heart melt. _'Do I even have a heart?," _she asked herself. Then, she thought deeper. '_He really did love me, didn't he? And, somehow, we got over all it. The handler-asset crap. The lies. The rejections. The constant hurt I caused him. He was happy with her, with me. I made him happy.' _

It was at that moment that Sarah realized it. She was _feeling_. Something other than the pain of a pinch. She was _feeling _for him. And it felt good. Her body, or whatever it was, felt tingly all over. She could swear that she felt tear drops coming from her eyes, or what she perceived as her eyes.

"Chuck, I'm sorry. You said that you couldn't understand what I'm going through. You're right. But I don't think I can understand your pain either."

"Why not?" Chuck asked.

"Because I never lost you."

Sarah could swear she heard sobbing, but the dwarf in front of her was stoic. _'Maybe this ridiculous cartoon can't cry. But Chuck can_._' _She thought. Then she heard a little voice trying to reach her from the back of her head. The voice she had forgotten about while speaking with him. The voice that she _often _forgot about while speaking with him. The voice of Agent Walker. She tried to suppress the voice, but it kept growing louder. Eventually, she gave in.

"Chuck, if Jeff's program could find me buried after 15 years, have you given any thought to what else the program could do?

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You said the program sorts things into categories, right? What about categories such as terrorism, or drug trafficking?"

"I mean, yeah, I guess it's possible. But how am I going to get Jeff's program into the hands of terrorists?"

"Well, you said it might sell millions of copies. Maybe it's all about marketing it to the right people. And then using it to take them down with one swift strike."

From his chair, Chuck smiled. This was the Sarah he knew. In both their professional lives and their marriage, people who didn't know them often broke down their relationship as "she's the looks, he's the brains." Chuck knew that was bullshit. She might have been the looks, but their brains complemented each other. Sarah was just as whip smart as him, only in different ways. He could never match her cunning.

"It's an idea . . . we'll consider it. Oh, I almost forgot. I have a little surprise for you. Maybe something that will help with the emptiness. I think I found a way to give you access to the internet, without loading it into your program. If I'm right, it should feel more like reading or watching."

"Thanks, Chuck. I'll look into it. Now go to sleep . . . we both need you functional. I'll find a way to cope."

Chuck signed off. That night, he tried to sleep. But without success. He kept thinking, over and over, about Sarah being stuck in the void. In the emptiness. And her last word, "cope." The way she said it. Like she was terrified to break the connection with him. To be returned to the endless nothing. If there was a piece of her that was Sarah, and he was now pretty sure there was, he had to find a way to help her. He just didn't know how.

* * *

**May 24, 2022 6:30 a.m.; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck entered his kitchen, where he saw Ellie sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. She was enjoying a few minutes of blissful quiet before the kids awoke. Chuck exhaled deeply. It had been many years since he brazenly lied to his sister. He hoped he wasn't out of practice. He was going to be doing this a lot over the next few months.

"Ellie, got a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?" Ellie responded, gazing up at him from her morning coffee.

"Before I say anything, you still have a level 6 clearance, right?"

"Mmm hmm, I actually just got recertified in order to participate in, well, you know. From last month."

Chuck grew a slight grin. "You mean, when you conspired with Casey to trick me into downloading the Intersect again?"

Ellie's face grew red with embarrassment. "Yeah, that. Still bitter?"

Chuck shook his head. "No. I know how hard it was for you. You never wanted this life for me. I also wanted to let you know: you were right. This blasted thing, it's forced me to engage with the world. And it feels good to help people again. If anything, I wanted to thank you for this. You always knew what I needed more than I did."

"Glad you see it that way," Ellie responded, feeling quite proud of herself.

"So, anyway, Ell, here's what I wanted to ask. The Government's asked me to consult on something. It's not strictly Intersect-related, they just want my advice. I was hoping to pick your brain."

"Of course. What it is Chuck?"

"Ellie, what do you know about sensory deprivation?"

"Like in those tanks? Planning a date with someone? Many someone with green eyes, dark hair, and dusty skin? Hint, hint, Chuck."

"Not exactly, and nothing like that. We're being asked to advise on new techniques to, um, prepare suspects for questioning."

Ellie's mouth gaped wide open. She stood up from her seat, and replied sharply: "Charles Irving Bartowski! Are you asking me for my opinion on how to torture prisoners?"

Chuck shook his head violently, then pointed it downward, looking at the floor. He responded sheepishly: "Wha . . . no. Um, yes. Kinda." As he did so, his interior brain smiled, assessing how much to play up the guilt. With what had transpired over the past week, he had plenty of real guilt to draw inspiration from.

"Chuck! You look like Peaches after we caught him eating Dad's shoes."

"Sis, hear me out! They just want my opinion. If you say something is beyond the pale, you can make a difference. You can help us avoid a terrible mistake."

Ellie pondered a few seconds, debating her response. "I see your point. Kind of. You can ask. And then, maybe, I'll decide whether to answer."

"Fair enough. Alright. So, as I mentioned, one of the options we're considering is extended sensory deprivation. Basically, locking someone in a tank, with no light, no touch, no external stimuli. Just darkness everywhere. We'll even feed them through a continuous slow IV drip so that they won't feel hunger or thirst. As a neurologist, could you give an opinion? What do you think? Would it make suspects more cooperative?"

Ellie looked at Chuck incredulously, as if he had just professed that the sun revolved around the Earth. Her tone regained its sharpness. "I think it's torture. And it won't be effective. It will just drive your 'suspects' insane. Worse than that. Keep it up long enough, and the brain will begin to deteriorate. Our brains, they need sensory input: touch, taste, smells, you name it. Take them away, and we lose the ability to recognize patterns, perform arithmetic, or even to separate reality from increasing vivid hallucinations. A scientist in the 1950s, Donald Hebb, paid volunteers to undergo sensory deprivation for six weeks. His test subjects broke so quickly that he had to end the project after just a few days. Whatever you do, tell your superiors, don't do this to people. We're better than this. Chuck, you're better than this."

Chuck walked over and gave her a small hug. "Don't worry sis, I'll make them understand. We'll find another way."

He kept his true thoughts unvoiced: _'It's far worse than I knew. How the hell am I going to get out of this one? Get her out of this one. I lost her once. I can't lose her again. I can't let her get lost again.'_

* * *

**May 29, 2022 11:30 p.m.; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

_Billy Batson: We're secure, and I have a surprise for you. _

"What is it Chuck?" Sarah asked.

"I'll show you," Chuck responded, calling out from his desk and reaching Sarah through the void. He clicked a few keys. Soon, a three-dimensional, photo-realistic Chuck avatar appeared before Sarah in the void. "I figured I could at least do better than a cartoon dwarf," he remarked.

Sarah gazed at the Chuck avatar. The brown bushy animal shapes in his hair now contained generous quantities of grey. His face was thinner, with wrinkles and scars that she had never seen before. And his body, which had never been athletic, looked gaunt. Even a bit sickly. Her words betrayed her thoughts. "You. . . got _old_. And _thin,_" she said.

Chuck, from his desk, rubbed his eyes with his hands. Sarah's words touched upon a difficult subject that he hadn't fully broached with her. He wished his avatar wasn't so true-to-life. "Well, fifteen years is pretty much responsible for the first part. As for the second, when Sarah died, when you died, something in me broke. I just shut down. Then I hated myself for shutting down. For not being the father that I was, or that our children deserve. For forcing Ellie and Devon to move half-way across the continent just to help me. But all that hatred, guilt, and self-pity just caused me to shut down more. And the harder I fought, the more I sunk. You know, it's kind of funny. Growing up, I always wished I understood what happened to my father after mom left. How he changed, became distant. Now, I understand. I guess, be careful what you wish for. I became him. Maybe worse. Anyway, what you're seeing is the result of three years of me pretty much not doing anything, including eating. At least you didn't see me a month ago. Before the Intersect. This is good by comparison."

Sarah looked at the avatar, at Chuck's likeliness. Waves of feeling rushed through her. Sadness, regret, and, confusingly, understanding. She wanted to do something, anything, to comfort him. She ran to his avatar, extending her arms and opening her body to hug it. But, rather than meet flesh and bone, she dashed straight _through _the Chuck avatar. "What the hell?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" Chuck answered from his computer.

"Right. I forgot that you can't see me. I tried to hug you. But it's not you, is it? It's just an image, like a hologram, right? Nothing solid?" Sarah asked.

Sarah looked at her Chuck avatar, studied it. It wasn't quite the face she remembered. It had so much sadness baked into it. But it still had caring, warmth. It still made her heart flutter. And, she realized, there was at least one good thing to come from this whole mess (probably the one good thing): she no longer needed to conjure up Agent Walker to put that heart back in its place. Her thoughts, but not her longing looks, were interrupted by Chuck's response.

"More or less. We have a 3D camera at Castle. We usually use it for deep-fake photography, but I figured I could also create a three-dimensional image of myself. From what you're telling me, it worked." Chuck responded.

"What's Castle? And what's a deep-fake?"

"Right, I forgot it's 2007 for you. It's not important. What I'm trying to get at is, I'm interfacing with you using the Chuck avatar the same way I did with the dwarf. I'm still using the same back-door built into the Intersect fifteen years ago. But it was only programmed to let the scientists, or Graham, communicate with you. It wasn't designed to enable you to _touch _or _feel _anything. And I don't have the slightest idea how to access the parts of your brain that mimics the sense of touch. I'm not sure there is a way."

"But I can touch myself."

"Uh. . ."

"Shut up, Chuck. Not remotely what I meant. I meant that I can pinch myself and feel pain. I even think I felt a tear drop the other night."

"Yeah, and I'm not sure exactly why. My best guess is that what you perceive as your body is a projection of your own self-image, and that it responds to internal stimuli. Your brain knows that when you pinch yourself, it hurts. So when you perceive yourself pinching your arm, your brain knows to feel pain. When you feel sad, your brain knows to generate the perception of a tear. But I don't know how to _interface _with that part of your brain. I can't trigger touch, or smell, or taste. I wish I could."

"Oh."

"But all this just brings me to the second part of your surprise, Sarah."

"Which is?"

Chuck typed a few more keys. Soon, the void disappeared, replaced by a digital replica of Sarah's old hotel room at Maison23. The same green chairs. The same bed. The same gigantic mirror.

"How did you?" Sarah asked, looking around the room with wonder.

"I rented it yesterday. Your old room, I mean. I took a high-end camera with me. It still looks mostly the same, although I think they added some new artwork to the bathroom. In any event, I used the photographs to create, well, this. I hope you like it."

"I love it, thank you" Sarah exclaimed. She ran over to the bed and jumped, hoping to land on her fluffy, comfy mattress. She flew right through the bed, landing in the middle of a pixilated void.

She stood up, to find herself standing the center of her old bed. Looking down, she could not see below her waist. Where the rest of her body should be, she saw only the top of the bed's comforter. She waved her hand down, and her hand passed transparently through the image of the bed. She walked, passed through the bed, and grew somber. "This room, it's like you . . . right? Just an image? No substance? Look but don't touch?"

Chuck sighed again. "Yes, unfortunately. This isn't the TNG Holodeck. It's just like the avatar. I can create an image of a carpet, bed, table, whatever. But I haven't figured out how to create anything that your brain would perceive as a solid object. This is all an image, an illusion. Open the hotel room door, and the void is right outside."

"It's ok, Chuck. I understand. You're right. This is better than nothing. It's better than _the nothing_. And I appreciate the thought, I really do."

"I was able to give you access to the internet. Has that helped, at all?" Chuck asked.

"A little. But I can only read so many news articles and watch so many cat videos each day, you know? I need to do something. I'm not good at doing nothing. I haven't even taken a vacation for two years. Now I'm just staring at nothing. Or at cat videos. What was Graham thinking, creating me like this?"

"Well, you weren't supposed to exist. Not like this. At least, not for very long. You were supposed to be kept on ice until you were downloaded into a body. Your brain – it's modeled off of a human brain, off of Sarah's brain. It's expecting physiological responses – hunger, thirst, smells, touch, etc. - coming from a body that you don't have. I think that's what the problem is."

"What?"

Chuck sighed, then responded: "Put simply, the Intersect, it needs a host. It needs a body. You need a body."

"Chuck, it's not like we can pick up a spare body at the Largemart. So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know. I'm going to fix it. I promise. But I don't know how yet."

A spark of insight came upon Sarah. She jumped in excitedly: "Chuck! The personnel file. The flash. I _felt _it. I _felt _the information crushing against my skull. I _felt _my eyes going back to their sockets. It hurt like hell. But I _felt _something that wasn't just _me_, didn't come from just _me. _The picture too."

Sarah's comments, in turn, triggered a burst of inspiration from Chuck. From his chair, he smiled brightly.

"Sarah, I don't have a permanent solution. But I think I found a way to buy us some time."

"How?"

"I'm going to feed you."

"Chuck, I already told you. I'm not hungry. I don't get hungry."

"Not food. I'm going to feed you memories."

* * *

**A/N: **So I think it's 3 chapters left at this point, plus an epilogue. We'll see. Hope you enjoy it. I've tried to be unpredictable while still having the story flow logically. . . Please review. Also, if you have questions/ideas/thoughts, please leave them in a review or a PM. I've found many of them surprisingly helpful in writing the story! So thank you all for writing them!

Also, I'd like to thank people for posting previous chapters in the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group page! if someone could post this chapter in the same group I'd appreciate it!


	24. A Different Kind of Couple

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters. I'm not making any money from this.

* * *

_Previously on Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

_Ellie: _"My plan wasn't necessary. She got back her memories eventually, over time, and largely by herself. Her brain, just from living life, being exposed to triggers, it cut through the shit code."

_Chuck: _"You helped. You found and removed the last bits of shit code . . ."

*O*O*

_Dr. Zarnow:_ "We told the subject that we're studying the effects of long-term field activities on the brain — the frequent concussions, the blows to the head, the exposure to tranquilizers and other unusual substances. To bolster the cover, we've called in 30 other agents for similar scans. Technically, I guess you could say it's not a cover . . . we're actually doing that research. And that's what I'm telling the NSA we're doing here. But Agent Walker is the only one getting the special scans."

* * *

**June 17, 2012**

Ellie Whitcomb walked into the exam room at the NSA's Los Angeles facility. A smile beamed from her face as she approached her patient. "Sarah, I may have good news. You know that I've been looking for a way to help you get your memories back?"

"Yes, of course, Ellie." Sarah said, nodding from her exam chair.

Ellie looked over her notes on the tablet in her hand, then looked up at Sarah, focusing on her eyes. "I don't want to get your hopes up, but I think I may have a lead. I was digging through the NSA's database, trying to find something that would help you. I came across something. It's a brain scanner, with capabilities far beyond anything I've ever seen. From what I can figure out, it was designed several years ago for a study the NSA ran on the brains of agents, to measure the long-term effects of field work."

Sarah paused for a moment, as Ellie's comments triggered her recollection. "Huh. It's funny. I think I was part of that study. I remember the really annoying scans, but I didn't know there was anything special about the technology. Are my results there?"

Ellie shook her head "no," then spoke: "Unfortunately, all of the data is double-blind. If you're in there, you're just one of Agents 1 to 32."

Sarah looked up at Ellie from her chair. "How will the scanner help me?" she asked.

"It won't, not directly. But, based on the reports I've read, the scanner is able to create a picture of your brain on a neuron-by-neuron level. I'm hoping it will enable me to spot things that are out of the ordinary. Maybe then, I'll be able to repair the damage." Ellie answered.

"Ellie, are you sure this is all necessary? I've got maybe half of my memories back. I'm sure the rest will come back in time."

"It's your choice, Sarah. If you don't want to go further, that's up to you. But I'd like to at least understand what the faulty intersect did to you. I think that's important to make sure there are no long-term consequences that we don't know about."

"Ok. Let's do it."

* * *

**May 30, 2022 12:45 a.m.; Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"Feed me memories? What the hell does that mean?" Sarah grilled, directing her inquiries to the gaunt, sickly-thin Chuck avatar standing in front of her.

"You said it yourself – you're able to experience things when I upload them to your program." Chuck said.

Hearing Chuck's plan, Sarah's face radiated something between confusion and frustration – not that Chuck could see it from the confines of his bedroom desk chair.

"Yeah, I experience things. The sensation ranges from a tickle to a screaming headache. How's that going to help me?"

"What if we could upload what you felt at a given point in time – surprise, happiness, warmth? Maybe even taste, smells, and touch?" Chuck inquired.

"Is that even possible? I mean, it's not like there's one big repository of my memories somewhere." Sarah responded, now expressing more confusion and less frustration.

"You're right. I think there are two of them." Chuck said.

"Huh?"

Chuck explained: "The first shouldn't be that much of a shock to you. The entire time we knew each other, most of our lives were recorded – first because the government didn't trust me. And, later on, for our protection. The bugs, the cameras in our apartment, our home, our base, the Buy More – not to mention mission surveillance. There's close to 12 years of audio and video of you, just stored. And, as we speak, Jeff's program is analyzing every one of those recordings, attempting to decode your emotional state."

Sarah's expression now sped past confusion into bewilderment:

"Um. I don't know how to respond to that. You turned over 12 years of my life so that a program written by Jeff Barnes could tell you how I was feeling?"

Started, Chuck jumped out of his chair – although the stoic avatar visible that Sarah could see did not move at all.

"Wha? No. Ugh. Not what I intended. My god, you must think I'm some kind of crazy stalker or something," Chuck said.

Hearing Chuck ramble on defensively, Sarah burst inside with both amusement and warmth. Outwardly, she laughed. Less than two weeks ago, by her reckoning, she had seen Chuck. The _real _her. The _real _him. Now, fifteen years later, he was still the same basic guy – a bit sadder, a bit more mature – but with the same inherent decency that first endeared him to her.

"Relax, Chuck. It's a little weird, but I know you must have had a good reason."

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief.

"Like stalking a dead woman." Sarah quipped.

"Wha?" Chuck replied, almost falling out of his chair (not that Sarah could see it – the avatar remained emotionless).

Sarah fought to stifle her own giggles. "Chuck, kidding. Again. But I don't know about relying upon a computer program to tell me what I was feeling. It feels fake, artificial. You mentioned a second option?" _Fake, artificial. Sarah's own words stung her. She was fake, artificial. She didn't feel it. But she knew it. _

"Um yeah, the second option." Chuck paused, pondering how to phrase this story. "A little more than 10 years ago, there was . . . an accident. You wound up losing a good chunk of your memories. And things were hard, on you, on me, on us. Over time, you got many of them back on your own. But the rest? It was Ellie who saved you. She found a way to make you . . . you again. I remember Ellie talking about this crazy advanced NSA technology that she was using to study your brain – how it created a model so detailed that she was able to, um, well I guess the best word would be _repair_ . . . repair you on a neuron-by-neuron level. I didn't think anything of it at the time but. . ."

Sarah nodded to the avatar, grasping where Chuck's mind was going: "But now that you know about Graham's little side project, you think that Ellie used the same technology that created me to cure me? Well, cure the other me?"

"Yeah. And, if I'm right, there are over eleven years of your memories locked up in the form of brain scan data, just sitting in the medical files on my computer."

"Eleven years?" Sarah asked, stunned.

"The injury you suffered was traumatic. Even after fixing you, Ellie was concerned about possible long-term effects. She ordered you to undergo periodic brain scans, to check up on you. At first, it was every few months, then twice a year. The last two years it was just annually. Your last scan was in July, about nine months before you passed. It's kind of ironic."

"The strokes." Sarah said. She had reviewed her personnel files, and spoken with Chuck. It was spooky and unsettling, but she knew how she died. And, only the day before, Chuck had mentioned the mini-strokes that preceded the final blow.

Chuck nodded from his chair, "Yeah," he said, sighing, "the most advanced brain imaging technology in the world. And it didn't pick up any hints of what would happen."

Neither spoke for a few minutes. But from the physical plane to the digital one, a comfortable silence passed between them - a mutual pondering of the depths of their intertwined loss. For Chuck, the loss of what he knew. And for Sarah, the loss of what, to her, never was. Her entire life, being lived, to its natural end. Without her knowing about it. More than that, both heard the little voice in the back of their head. The irrational hope that maybe, just maybe, a path now existed for both of them to get back some of what they lost. But neither knew that the other heard this voice too.

Eventually, Chuck broke the silence: "There's something else, though. Our memories. They make us who we are. Think carefully about this. I worried."

"About what, Chuck?" Sarah probed.

"That I'm being selfish. That this plan is my own selfishness. You don't know just how much I've missed talking to you, sharing with you. Even if all we are is two people talking through a computer. And even if you don't feel the same way. But still, there's something . . ."

"I'm not the person you shared your life with." Sarah said, finishing his sentence."

"Yeah." Chuck acknowledged.

"You think I'm just a dumb piece of software." Sarah said, dejectedly, predicting Chuck's thoughts.

"Wha? No. That's not what I meant. You're more. I can't explain or quantity it, but you're much more. And I hope I can convince you of that. What I meant is that we got married, had children, and lived a life. A life that you don't know anything about. And it's not like you forgot, or had your memory suppressed. You just never experienced any of it, because to you it's still late-December 2007. And I can't ask you to change. To become _her_,simply because I want that person back."

_It was like he read my mind_, Sarah thought. _Except he didn't know I thinking it. Was that how we always were? Perpetually on the same page, but terrible at realizing it. _

"Don't I get a say in this?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about!"

"My gosh you're dense. You keep talking about how selfish you are, but you haven't even asked me what _I _want. Has it occurred to you that I might want to experience what she experienced?" Sarah inquired.

"Huh?"

"Chuck, I found a way to access our mission reports – not to _upload _them, just to access them. Kind of like reading them. I've spent the past few days going through them, learning about all the incredible things we accomplished. And you've told me about my son, my daughter, my younger sister. I hear the stories, but I don't know anything about any them. Didn't you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I was jealous of _her_?"

"Of yourself?"

"In a way. Look, does the thought of blinking and being instantly transformed from super-spy to suburban mom terrify me? Yeah. But the more we've spoken, the more I've _read_, the bigger the ache inside me . . . for what I never had. For what I never thought I could have. Now, your telling me there's a way to soothe that ache? And to stop me from going insane from boredom in the process?"

"I never thought of it that way," Chuck said shaking his head (though, as always, his avatar stayed stoic).

"For a genius, you are such an idiot." Sarah responded, flirtatiously.

"Yeah, I am."

* * *

**June 16, 2022****; 11:45 p.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

_Missile Commander: Hi Chuck, are we secure?_

_Billy Batson: Hi Sarah. We're secure. And we have work to do._

_Billy Batson_: _Logging in now. _

Shortly thereafter, the digital Chuck avatar appeared in the void opposite Sarah.

Sarah rush over to him, then through him, momentarily forgetting that the avatar lacked any substance. She spoke, rather frantically: "Where were you? I thought I was going to hear from you tonight. I'll admit, I was getting a bit, um, stir crazy. The shakes. The not feeling anything."

Chuck hesitated. He should have told Sarah beforehand. But he didn't. The subject was _uncomfortable_. But not telling had just made the situation worse. Now, he felt like he cheated. And not just the kiss, although that was a big part of it. The attraction. The involuntary reaction he felt, down there, when he thought Abby was propositioning him. Even if it was devoid of emotion. Sure, he'd been attracted to other women during his marriage – he was heterosexual, and it was normal. At times, Sarah, the _first _Sarah, even played with him about it. But he usually hadn't been on dates with them. And, when he had, it was part of a mission, and Sarah was either in the room or on the comms. This was different. He should have told her before.

Eventually, Chuck spoke: "About the shakes, I'm working on that – getting Ellie's brain scans ready. I'm close. It shouldn't be more than a few days. Keep it together, please! As for where I was tonight? Um. It's uh, kinda difficult to explain."

"Try me." Sarah responded, sharply.

"I had a date."

"Oh."

"I mean, not really a date. More like mission prep. But also kinda like a date."

"With this Abby person?"

Chuck sighed. "Yeah. I didn't want to. It wasn't my idea. We have to play a couple for an upcoming mission. Abby thought it would be good to practice. I mean, not practicing _that_. Just practicing acting couply in public. I haven't been with anyone since, well, you know."

Sarah contemplated the situation. She was jealous. She knew it. But, deep down, her caring for this man overrode any jealousy or anger she have felt. She sought to reassure him:

"Chuck, it's ok. I understand. Besides, even if it was a real date, you deserve to be happy. Before, well, all this, I always thought, _knew_, that you couldn't be happy with me. Not really."

"And you were wrong." Chuck said, interjecting.

"Yes, I guess I was." _ I was, wasn't I? We had, what? Close to ten years of being together as a couple? Being happy? _Sarah thought, then continued:"But my point stands. You're flesh-and-blood. I'm ones and zeros. It doesn't feel like that to me. I feel like me. But I know it. In my bones. Or whatever I think are my bones. And I know that, all this, it . . . it isn't healthy for you, Chuck. I can't sit on the porch with you and watch you grow old. I can't cuddle up with you on a warm night. And, the _other_ physical stuff. . . I mean, you can't even _see _me, much less touch me."

"Sarah, I'm not a horny teenager . . . a lot of the stuff that's important when you're 26. Well, it matters a lot less when you're 41. And as for _seeing _you. . . . I said we had work to do."

"You found a way?" Sarah asked, her interest peaked.

"Close your eyes."

"Now open them."

"It's . . . the beach." Sarah looked around. It was the Malibu beach at early dawn. The same beach where she first met Chuck. It looked, perfect. Unchanged. Timeless. And real. It _looked _real, anyway.

Chuck said, staring intently at the vision of his departed wife . . . appearing almost exactly the same as when he first met her, as a lowly Nerd Herder. She lacked some of the grace, age, and elegance of the Sarah she'd grow into. But she brimmed with the same youthful enthusiasm, crystal blue eyes, and flowing golden hair:

"It's our beach. And I can see it too. More importantly, I can see you. You're . . . the most beautiful sight I've seen in over three years."

Chuck paused for a moment, awestruck by Sarah's image in front of him, then continued: "I found a way to interface a set of virtual reality glasses with your program. As for the beach. . . it's another one of my creations. Fake as hell – go a half mile in either direction and you'll run right into the void. Same thing if you go more than twenty-feet past the boardwalk. The waves are running on an hour loop. The sun? The sun is frozen in place at shortly after dawn or dusk. I'm kinda sorry I couldn't do more. Security software, worms, hacking, that was always my thing. But I could never get graphics or world building right. Probably why I never got into coding games. But, I figure at least you won't be stuck in darkness, or in that tiny apartment."

"Chuck . . . it's wonderful. You're wonderful. But my point."

"Shows how much you care about me. . . and also how much you're making the same mistake I did," Chuck said, cutting her off.

"What?" Sarah inquired.

"You're not asking me what I want." Chuck responded.

"What do you mean?"

"Sarah, _I remember thee for the devotion of your youth, how you loved me, how you followed me through the wilderness, in a land not sown._"

Sarah blushed, and conspicuously found herself not trying to hide it. "That's beautiful. Star Trek?"

"The Bible, actually. The Book of Jeremiah. I haven't gone religious or anything . . . it's a side effect of the current Intersect. What I meant was, fifteen years ago you found me lost, aimless. In the wilderness. I had no drive, no future. I hated myself. You gave me strength, you built me up. You made me realize my own worth. You enabled me to accomplish . . . well, everything. And it wasn't your body that did that. It was your mind."

"What if you want is. . ." Sarah pressed.

"Is someone to speak to. Someone who challenges me. Someone who understands me, even if she sometimes presumes that she's not good enough for me. And someone who supports me. All that other stuff? Life is about compromises. If you don't compromise well, you end up like Morgan. Throwing his happiness away because his wife wasn't as perfect as she hoped."

"You're willing to throw your life away." Sarah said, pushing the point.

"No. I'm putting it back together. Even if it won't be like it was before. Even if _you _are, well, um, different."

"I don't have a body."

"So maybe I'm willing to make an unconventional compromise."

"I'm not even human."

"I disagree. This conversation proves it."

"Your impossible."

Chuck laughed. "And to think I kissed Abby earlier tonight. What was I thinking?"

"You did what now?"

* * *

**June 18, 2022****; 11:15 p.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"I've ran every test. It's as ready as it ever will be," Chuck said, speaking through his avatar.

"What if it doesn't work? What if the scans are, um, just scans?" Sarah asked.

"Then you'll know a lot about your brain. And we'll be back to square one. But it won't hurt you."

"Why not involve Ellie? Couldn't she help?" Sarah inquired.

"I thought about it. But, at this point, it's a computer science problem, not a neurology one. Either the scans contain your memories or they don't. What matters now is layering each new scan using the same process that the original team did fifteen years ago. That's what I've been working on. I'm pretty sure I can replicate the process. But are you sure . . . is what you want, Sarah?"

"You know it is."

"Ok. Of the clean scans, the ones taken after Ellie fixed you, there are twelve, total. Four scans from the first year. Two from each of the next three years. And then one annual scan for the last two years. Twelve meals. If I'm right, if I understand this all, it should be like filling up a tank of gas. . . the scans should flood you with so much information that your brain will have enough sensory input to run for weeks – processing memories, absorbing everything you felt, saw, smelled, tasted, touched."

"And then?" Sarah asked.

"You fill up the tank with a new scan."

"And when we run out of scans?"

"Hopefully, by then, I'll have found a way to fix this. Fix all of this. Are you ready? It will hurt, at first."

"I can take it. Do it, Chuck."

Chuck hit a few keys, and layered a scan from late-October 2012.

Sarah screamed in pain as tens of thousands of images, memories, flooded her brain. She fell to the floor of the "beach" surrounding her, collapsing through the fake digital sand into the void. Waves of pain crashed against her skull, like a Category 5 hurricane. Chuck looked on, horrified. For a moment, he was tempted to remove his headset. It was difficult, _more than difficult_, to see Sarah like this. But no, he subjected her to this. He owed it to her to be with her in every way possible.

Eventually, after what seemed like eons, but was just minutes, the pain subsided. A smile slowly crept upon Sarah's face. She spoke:

"Whiskey and mint chocolate chip."

"Excuse me?" Chuck responded.

"The taste . . . it's on my mouth now. When I kissed you. After I finally told you how I felt. After I said 'yes.' You tasted like whiskey and mint chocolate chip."

* * *

A/N: So I said it would be three more chapters. . . it looks like I was wrong. This felt like the right place to break. So there are still three more chapters plus the epilogue, I think. Maybe more, maybe less.

An interesting side note. In a review, Marc Vun Kannon (who I respect the hell of, and who is a far superior writer than me - check out his stories) mentioned that this show could practically be a cross-over with Person of Interest. Before Marc mentioned the show, I had never even heard of it, much less watched an episode. I'm now midway through Season 3 and many of the (completely coincidental) similarities are striking - a reclusive wealthy computer programmer, a computer program that spies on millions people, even a villain named Elias and an emotionally-damaged attractive woman of Middle Eastern descent. Just goes to prove that there's nothing new under the sun - it's very hard to write anything that's not at least coincidentally similar to something else. I just hope that this story has been sufficiently original to keep people's interest. . . The good news is that me and my (quite living) wife are now both obsessed with Person of Interest. It's a great show.

As always, I'd very much appreciate if someone could post this on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group. And, of course, please review. Many thanks!


	25. Chuck vs the Digital and Physical Life

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

* * *

**July 7, 2022**

Chuck stood at the entrance to his beach. Two hundred feet in front of him, Sarah stood by the waves. Chuck gazed at her backside, cloaked in a flowing white dress, as he approached her.

"I was hoping you'd be here," Chuck said.

Sarah turned around to face him. "Chuck, I have something to say to you."

"What is it?"

She stared deeply into his eyes, then licked her lips seductively before opening her mouth:

"_Beh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh._"

Sarah bleated like a sheep. Chuck looked around. Dozens of sheep were on the beach. Bleating.

"_Beh-eh-eh-eh-eh_." Sarah reiterated, chiming in with the sheep.

Chuck woke up, covered in sweat. Sarah, sleeping next to him, stirred awake. "Chuck, honey, is everything ok?" she mumbled, half asleep.

"Yeah, just a weird dream." He said

Sarah propped herself up on the bed, and looked at him.

"Chuck, I have something to say to you."

"Yeah?"

"There are twelve Cylon models. I am Number Six."

Chuck looked down. Sarah was holding a gun. She pointed it at him, and stared at him coldly. Her blue eyes pierced like ice. Without a hint of expression or emotion, she pulled the trigger and shot him in the face.

Chuck woke up, this time for real, covered in sweat. He looked at the empty bed beside him, then at his computer, then at his alarm clock. It was 4:13 a.m. He grabbed the pillow next to him, and slammed it into his face.

* * *

**July 8, 2022 11:15 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Chuck greeted Sarah on the beach. "I have a surprise for you."

"What?" she asked.

"Try to hug me." Chuck directed.

"Chuck, did you?"

"Just try it."

Sarah reached out and wrapped her arms around him. Truly around him. Not through him. He was _there_. He didn't _feel _like Chuck. He felt cold, hard, firm. But the fact that he _felt _at all, that _she felt_, gladdened her heart. "You're . . . solid, really solid. How?"

"I found another backdoor built into your programming. It's not much. It's a binary system only. Yes or no. On or off. I found a way to turn me on. Err. . . turn me on for you. Er. . . turn my body on for you," Chuck shook his head, "This isn't coming out right."

Sarah giggled. "It's alright. I knew you didn't feel _right_. There was no softness, no flexibility in your skin. It was more like a smooth wall."

Chuck, through his avatar, nodded. "Yeah, like I said, binary. Solid or not solid. From what I can tell, it's all they programmed you for. But, I figure, better a solid wall than nothing but vapors."

Sarah smiled happily. "Thank you. I love it. Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Chuck nodded for her to continue.

Sarah sighed, then spoke. "This is difficult to say, to explain. . . There are gaps. In my memories."

Chuck sighed as well, then responded. "I know."

"How?" Sarah asked.

Chuck explained: "I read the files, the reports from the original work. The process that was used to create you. It wasn't perfect. They knew there would be gaps. That's why there were so many scans. They were trying to close them. How big are they, the gaps?"

Sarah walked around erratically, placing her fingertips on her forehead. "It varies. It's frustrating. It's like there are facts, knowledge just out of my grasp. Mostly little things."

"Can you give me an example?"

Sarah continued to pace on the beach. "The last mission we went on, before well, before I woke up here. The mark. He had a boat. His name was Kirk. But the rest. . . he wasn't Captain Kirk, right? That's someone else?

Chuck laughed a little, then tried to stifle it. "Yeah, that's someone else." He said.

"But there are some big things too, mostly from my childhood."

"Sarah, no one remembers all of their childhood. For all of us, it's mostly flashes, disconnected images, a handful of stories. Even what we remember . . . how much do we _really _recall? And how much are we just reconstructing, inventing, from what other people tell us?"

Sarah nodded her head. "I know. But this is different. It feels different. It's mostly there. . . but then it's not. It's driving me nuts. It reinforces how fake, artificial I am. How I'm not whole. You know?"

"I don't think I can really understand. I don't think anyone can really understand. You're one of a kind Sarah Walker."

Sarah interjected sharply. "Bartowski. It's Bartowski now."

Chuck smiled. "You're one of kind, Sarah Bartowski. But I can try to help."

"How?" she asked.

Chuck explained. "Well, there are more scans. As you absorb them, the gaps should get narrower. Many might vanish entirety."

"And what about the gaps that are left? I mean, for some of it, I guess I could watch the surveillance videos, see if they fill in the missing pieces. But the rest? From when I was a kid? From stuff not captured on video?"

A spark of insight hit Chuck. "There may be a way," he said.

"Huh?" Sarah asked.

"A few weeks ago, I borrowed one of Ellie's inventions. It reads thoughts, and creates pictures based on them. It was designed as an interrogation tool. But I was hoping to use it to create new worlds, new environments for you to live in. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to interface it."

"How is this going to help?"

"The tool, we call it JJ. On the right setting, it can _record _thoughts. All I'd need to do is speak to people who knew you, and ask them the right questions. From there, JJ should be able to produce recordings of what they remember. It wouldn't work like the brain scan data. You wouldn't perceive them as memories. It would be more like watching home movies, kind of like the surveillance videos. But maybe, just maybe, JJ could narrow the gaps in your mind? Let you connect the missing dots?"

Sarah's mood brightened. "Can we try it? Actually, I have an idea of where to begin. I've been scouring the web. I think my dad's coming into town."

* * *

**July 19, 2022 1:20 a.m., Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

"I almost died last night," Chuck confessed on the digital beach.

Horror crept over Sarah's face. "What, how?" she questioned.

Chuck looked at Sarah, then back at the waves. "The mission. The guy we were tracking, Elias, he shot at Abby. I pushed her out of the way, and took the brunt of it. My vest caught it. I timed it right. Just right. If I was a few inches off . . . the bullet would have lodged in my neck. End of story."

"My god. Isn't she supposed to be _protecting you_?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah, but well, you know. . . I was never really good at doing nothing when my partners are in danger."

"I know."

Chuck's voice grew strained, frantic, as he began walking in circles. "It needs to stop. Our kids. I mean, they already lost their mother. I mean. . ."

"I know what you mean. Aside from the memories. I've been watching videos of them with me . . . then just of them, from the surveillance."

Chuck continued to pace. "Right. And, while Ellie and Devon are amazing parents, maybe better than we ever were, I can't put that burden on them. Not anymore than I already have."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I need to get out of the field. I'm saying I need to stop getting into situations where I just can't control my instincts and wind up throwing myself in front of a bullet to save others. In the field, _I am that guy_. Always have been. I can't help myself. And it's going to get me killed . . . . I guess I'm saying, it's time for me to get back in the van. Hell, it's time for me to never leave Castle."

"I agree with you. But how?" Sarah inquired.

"What we've been discussing. Jeff's program. The nuclear option. I've been working with Jeff for weeks on it. It's almost done. But you know I've been resistant to pull the trigger. This past weekend, it convinced me. It's time to take all the players off the board – put an end to all field work for awhile. And make myself so valuable that Beckman restricts me to analyst duty going forward. It's either that or I keep going out in the field, taking them down one-by-one. Until one day, I'll end up in a body bag. If that happens, our kids will be orphans, and you'll be trapped forever in the void, going insane."

"Chuck, the cost? Are you sure?" she probed.

"No, I'm not sure. Of course, I'm not sure. I do this, and I'm a mass murderer. Maybe not legally, but I'll feel like it. Worse. My motives . . . Casey, whoever else we rope in – they can tell themselves that they're doing this for love of country, or because it will save more lives in the long-run, or because the ends justify the means. Maybe they'll even believe it. I won't. I can't. All those things, they might be true. Maybe they'll even help me sleep better at night, though I doubt it. But they aren't enough. Not for me. Maybe they are close to enough. But, deep down, I know I'm wouldn't do this just because some math equation in my head tells me that killing thousands of bad guys will save tens of thousands of good guys. It's a good argument. But it doesn't _quite _tip it over the edge. The final straw, for me . . . is that I'm a selfish ass. Because I know, if I don't do this, is that the alternative ends in my death and a loss that my family shouldn't have to endure. And I'm willing to kill thousands of people because of it."

"You have another choice, Chuck. You can quit. You did it before." Sarah noted.

Chuck shook his head dismissively. "It never stuck. Not until you died. And only then because I couldn't function. I'm out of my shell now . . . and I just can't sit and let bad things happen, knowing I can stop them. The only question is, how? How do I stop them? By doing what we've always done, until some lucky bad guy sends me to Valhalla? Or by sitting in my pajamas at my desk? If thousands of murderers have to die because I choose option B, I can live with it."

"Ok, Chuck. If this is what you want, I'll support you."

"I can live with it. I _can _live with it. _Can I live with it_?" Chuck rambled, staring at the waves.

"Only you can answer that question. But I'll back you up. And I don't just mean emotionally."

"Huh?"

Sarah explained: "If all goes according to plan, you'll need help processing the data. The computerized Intersect might be able to narrow things down, but the list of potential targets could be massive. You need me."

"I can't. . . we might be able to _fix _this, _fix _all this. I can't keep you trapped here."

"Please. At best, you're months away from a solution and you know it. You also know that I'm the only one who can help. My programming, underneath my memories, we share the same basic Intersect code. There's no one else who can analyze the data like me, like us, and connect the right dots."

She looked into his eyes, then planted a soft kiss against his cheek. It felt like concrete, but she was pretty sure she got the point across.

* * *

**December 10****th****, 2022 Los Angeles**

On a brisk December afternoon, Morgan and Alex re-married in a small civil ceremony. Casey and Kathleen put aside their differences to jointly walk Alex down the aisle, while Big Mike and Bolonia did the same for Morgan. Chuck smiled a little at the sight of his formerly rotund boss, who had now slimmed down to a trim 170 pounds. Big Mike had long left the Buy More to go into insurance, and Chuck rarely saw the man.

The ceremony and reception were held in the courtyard of Gustavo's, a family-owned Mexican restaurant that Morgan and Alex frequented. About thirty people attended. It was far cry from their first wedding, a large Catholic affair with a full Church service and over 200 guests. The dichotomy struck Chuck. Midway through the reception, he approached Alex and Morgan and broached the subject with her.

Alex nodded, then grinned happily: "I wanted a Catholic wedding this time too. But my priest, Father Torres, told it was impossible. We never got an annulment the first time around. So, in the eyes of the Church, we're still married." Alex said, smiling as she continued, "In a way, it was a kind of relief to me. I mean, it's like, here's this one small thing that I didn't screw up. You know? And it just felt right to me. These past few years, I never truly felt divorced. Not in my mind. I think the Church knew what, deep down, I always knew . . .," she said, wrapping her arms around Morgan and planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, "I had never let this funny little man go. He was always mine. And he always will be."

Chuck responded, smiling, "I get the feeling."

Alex continued, her eyes focused on Morgan, "I mean, not to press the subject, but even when I dated other people . . . it didn't feel right. There were certain things I didn't do. That I didn't feel right about doing. Not with anyone but this friendly, lovable little troll here."

Chuck nodded affirmatively. As he did so, he caught Abby across the room, giving him a glance. She looked stunning in a strapless, green, mermaid-scale dress, the color of which matched her translucent eyes. They still hadn't talked about Thanksgiving. About how, before the ruckus, she was one-and-a-half words from professing her love for him. He didn't want to broach the subject, and she was too embarrassed to. He knew she loved him, at least in a way. Certainly not in the unconditional, altruistic way that Sarah did. Abby's love, Chuck gaged, was a weaker form of love, a selfish love – she loved how he made her feel, how he treated her, how he supported her emotionally. It was a love focused on filling her own emptiness. But it was probably love nevertheless. Maybe like what Jill once felt for him. Which made everything harder. And, Chuck mused, it wasn't as if his feeling for her were entirely platonic. He was attracted to her. Very much so. But, aside from a base physical desire, any emotional connection he felt to her was founded upon sympathy, maybe even pity. Kind of like the feeling he might have for a wounded puppy. His life had been tough. But she had it much worse. He still had Ellie, Casey, Morgan, his kids. And now Sarah. She had no one.

Mired in his thoughts, a stray idea occurred to him. In some respects, Abby was exactly what he _thought _he wanted Sarah to be, back when they first met fifteen years before. Both were kick-ass spy girls. But while Sarah guarded her feelings behind fortified castle walls, Abby wore her emotions on her sleeve. Sarah kept her past a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Abby prided herself on being an open book. Sarah lied about everything. Abby was honest to a fault. Or at least she never lied to him. And while Sarah ying-yanged him for nearly three years before they got together, wallowing him in emotional torture, Abby offered him "Ms. Robinson"-style availability within a few months after they met. He wondered, if Abby or someone like her had been his handler instead of Sarah, would he have fallen for her instead? Subtly shaking his head, he discounted the possibility. Underneath everything, he always sensed a depth, a warmth in Sarah. Abby didn't have that. Abby was hollow. She lived for nothing other than the job and the momentary thrills it provided. Hence, the sympathy. And the pity.

"Earth to Chuck?" Morgan said interrupting him, waiving his hand in front of Chuck's face.

"Sorry, spaced out a bit."

Morgan grasped Alex in a bear-hug, as both of them flashed cheery smiles at Chuck. "We wanted to wait until we made it official. The wedding, I mean. But, now that we did, um. . ."

Alex jumped in. "Your wedding present. Your donation at the bank. We're going to make use of it. This week"

"And if it's a boy, we're naming it after you." Morgan said.

"Woah, aren't you getting ahead of yourselves? I mean, there's still a chance it could happen naturally with the two of you." Chuck said, repeating his advice from October.

"Yeah, a one-in-10,000 chance. We're sure." Morgan responded. "I made her wait a long, long time. I'm not making her wait anymore. . . Besides, I love you like a brother. So that will make my son, my nephew, right?"

Chuck smiled widely at them as they left, until he was surprised by burly arms wrapping around his shoulder from his backside. He turned his head to see Casey, midway between the cities of tipsy and piss-drunk.

"Chuck, cigar?" Casey asked, extending him a stogie with his free hand.

"I'm good thanks."

"Well, I hear you're fathering my grandchildren. You can at least join me for a drink." Casey responded, grabbing two whiskeys-on-the-rocks from a trey carried by a passing waiter.

"That I can do," Chuck said. "Cheers," taking hold of the drink and bringing it to his lips.

"Sit with me, for a few," Casey said, sitting down and offering Chuck a chair.

"You want to share a moment? Get sentimental? Talk about our ladyfeelings?" Chuck said, jesting.

Casey grunted. "Normally, I'd kill you for that. But it's my only daughter's wedding. Killing you would be bad form. And maybe I'm feeling a little sentimental. I ever tell you why I came back ten years ago? Why I left the German broad?"

"Gertrude, right?"

"Yeah. This is why. This is why I came back," Casey said pointing his drink in the direction of Alex and Morgan, who stood on the other side of the courtyard making small-talk with two of Kathleen's cousins. "I missed her childhood. I wasn't going to leave her life again. Miss her. Miss the chance to know my grandkids. But not just her. You, Sarah, Morgan. The work we did. The good we did. Some people will tell you that everyone should couple-up, do the whole nuclear-family thing. That was the right choice for you, once. Hell, maybe it will be the right choice for you again one day. Maybe not. It wasn't the right choice for me. I wouldn't change a thing."

As Casey mused, Chuck caught Abby glancing at him again. Peering into her clear green eyes, Chuck let his glance rest upon her for two seconds. Then he turned away.

* * *

**January 15, 2023, Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

The Bartowski backyard was set up like a Buy More store. Rows of fake electronics lined the grass, while a cage of real broken equipment rested on the patio by the pool.

"A Buy More-themed birthday party for a nine-year-old? What has gotten into that kid? I mean, ever since Thanksgiving, Stephen just worships the ground you walk on." Ellie commented, as she helped Chuck set up the mock Nerd Herd desk. "Is there something you want to tell me, little brother?"

Chuck gave off a non-committal shrug. Just then, the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Chuck said, leaving Ellie to finish setting up. Chuck wandered into the house, and then walked to the front door and opened it.

"Hi Chuck," Carina said, her two-year-daughter in tow, "I hope I'm not too early. . . and I hope it was ok to bring Shelly, my babysitter cancelled on me at the last minute."

"You're right on time, come in. The party will start in about ten. Thanks for coming."

Shelly ran in, and immediately planted herself next to Diana on the couch, where Chuck's daughter was watching cartoons.

Chuck stared at Shelly. She looked familiar, in a very odd way. Like someone he hadn't seen for close to forty years. "She's a great kid. Kind of reminds me of someone, but I can't quite place my finger on it." he said.

"Thanks," Carina replied, "You know I named her after Sarah."

Chuck shot Carina and inquisitive look.

"Our first assignment together, when we met, long before the CAT squad. She was undercover as an art dealer, Shelly something. I forget the last name." Carina paused, looking at her daughter, then continued, "She was Sarah for so long for me that it would have been weird to name my daughter that. But I wanted to give Sarah something. You know?"

Carina turned her face away from her daughter, towards Chuck. "By the way, Chuck, since we have a few minutes, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Shoot."

"Back in what, April/May, you asked me to connect you with contacts in El Jefe. . . I pulled strings. . . then nothing. What happened? I mean, El Jefe got blown to bits two weeks ago, and I'm guessing you had something to do with that, so no biggie. But, seriously? Chuck?"

"Oh that." Chuck laughed. "What happened? Life. Life happened. I had plans. Heck, my plans had plans. Then wham! An opportunity presented itself and my plans weren't worth a Turkish Lira. I mean, that's pretty much how life goes, right?"

"Huh, I don't get it."

"Well, think about it. I was near the top of my class at Stanford . . . about ready to graduate, marry my college sweetheart, and retire by 30 as a software millionaire. Then our old friend Bryce blows that to smithereens and, wham! Five years later, I'm single, alone, and working at a Buy More. Then I meet Sarah, and wham! again . . . suddenly I'm thrown into this crazy spy world, lying to everyone, and marrying the girl of my dreams. Then she died. Wham again! Or . . . look at you? Did you ever think you'd find happiness in a desk job, raising a daughter, and going to the birthday parties of your friends' kids?"

"Not really, no." Carina responded, smiling as she glanced up at Chuck.

"Right. I mean, foreshadowing. It's literary tripe. Life doesn't have foreshadowing. Life is just living, being whammed, and figuring out how to live after the wham! Maybe, tomorrow, I get hit by a bus. Maybe that's how my story ends. Or maybe I live another sixty years and die in my hospital bed surrounded by dozens of descendants." Chuck exclaimed, while Carina nodded, politely.

Just then, the doorbell rang again, and Chuck excused himself to answer it.

Twenty minutes later, twenty kids were running around the backyard, being entertained by a crew of Buy More staffers, who were training them in the art of fixing computers, and general party entertainers. Two of the entertainers were actually undercover NSA. Extra government-arranged security had long been standard at Bartowski family events. Standing next to Morgan, Chuck looked at his friend. Then Chuck gave a long look at Shelly, who was running around. Chuck returned his glance back to Morgan.

"Morgan, can I ask you something personal?"

"Sure, no secrets between us man."

"When you and Alex were broken up, did you ever get with Carina?"

Morgan turned his head directly to Chuck, and raised one finger. "One time. A few months after everything went to hell. Why do you ask?"

Chuck shot another glance at Shelly, and then looked at his old friend again. There was definitely a strong resemblance. "Oh. No reason. But perhaps you should have a talk with Carina about it."

Chuck looked outside, and then down at his watch. The Buy Morans, led by Gabby and Winnie, had started a performance. It was supposed to last twenty minutes. All the essentials were here: Emma, Molly, Ellie, Devon, Casey, Morgan, Carina, even Alex. _'As good a time as any.' _Chuck thought. He texted all of them: _'My room. Two minutes. It's important.'_

A few minutes later, everyone gathered in Chuck's room, where he passed out virtual reality glasses.

"Chuck, what's this about is this going to take long? The kids?" Ellie asked.

"Abby's there, the extra NSA security, the entertainers, even the Buy More Crew. The kids are safe. We've got a few minutes. And it's not often that we're all together. As for what this is about, it will be easier to show you. Everyone, put on your glasses."

They did. Chuck hit a few keys on his computer, then put on his own glasses. Soon, everyone was standing on his virtual Malibu beach.

"Awesome," Devon interjected, "the beach mean, you designing a game or something?"

"Not exactly." Chuck

Just then, Sarah popped into the beach. "Hi Mom, Molly, Ellie . . . everyone. It's good to see you all again."

"Sarah?" Emma asked, dumbfounded.

Ellie glared at Sarah, and then back at her brother:

"_Chuck, what the hell?"_

* * *

A/N: The bleating sheep at the beginning is a reference to Philip K. Dick's novel, "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep," which served as the basis for Blade Runner.

Chuck's exchange with Carina breaks the fourth wall a little bit. As much as anything, it reflects the process I went through writing this story. I had a pretty elaborate side plot involving Carina kind of worked out in my mind. I dumped it.

I also had a side plot involving the Buy More and the two OC Buy Morans, Gabby and Winnie. Gabby, for instance, in my original conception, combined lesbianism with hilariously extreme right-wing politics (to the point that she'd make Casey blush). But I dropped all that stuff too, limiting Gabby and Winne to a brief appearance in Chapter 12. Frankly, I probably had too many plots going on in this story that I had trouble enough keeping straight and on-track.

Abby too, changed a lot in my mind. I first envisioned her as an adversarial, almost villainous character (but not quite a villain). But, as I wrote, she became far less adversarial and far more tragic.

So I've played around a bit with how many chapters. . . I keep saying three more chapters. This time I mean it. There are three more chapters, followed by an epilogue. There is still one reasonably big twist that I think flows logically, but I suspect will come as a little bit of a shock.

If someone could post this on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it.

And, as always, I love reviews - please leave one and give me your thoughts.


	26. You either die the hero, or

**A/N: I don't own Chuck or these characters. I'm not making any money from this.**

_Previously, in Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

_Chapter 15 _

_Jack: _"Schnook, are you mentally ill?"

_Chuck: _"Quite possibly. Will you help me anyway?"

_Chapter 20 _

_Sarah: __"Caligula was insane, Chuck,"_

_Chuck: __"And I'm not?"_

_Chapter 20 _

_Chuck: "Casey, ever think that maybe, just maybe, I'm the villain in this story?"_

* * *

**January 15, 2023, A Virtual Malibu Beach, Inside Casa Bartowski-Woodcomb**

Emma's eyes watered up inside her VR goggles. Whatever was before her, it looked like her daughter. Moved like her. Sounded like her. Was it possible? She knew Sarah had faked her death before. Could this all have been some awful CIA ruse? No. Rationally, she discounted the possibility. Not with the kids, Chuck. Not for almost four years. She wouldn't have accepted any assignment like that. But what if she was running, hiding? No, just as illogical. Chuck would have taken the kids and run with her. They'd have changed their names, gone anonymous, and disappeared into some small town in the middle of nowhere. Bumblefuch, North Dakota maybe. Besides, if she was alive, even in hiding, Chuck wouldn't have collapsed the way he did. As a matter of logic, she couldn't be alive. Yet here she was. And, in just a few words, she was so _Sarah-like_. Her hands reached inside the goggles to wipe the tears from her eyes as she spoke. "Sarah, is that really you? Are you . . . alive?" Emma asked, tinges of unrealistic hope tremoring in her voice.

Sarah thought for a moment. She wanted to choose her words carefully, and had never been good with words. She tried to place herself in Emma's shoes. What would it be like to lose a child? If she had lost Stephen, Diana? She couldn't imagine the prospect. Yet that's what happened to her mother. And now, her mother saw a walking, talking, sort-of breathing image of her? My god, what had she done agreeing to this. She could have lived with being less than whole. Less than Sarah. Yet they were too far gone. The damage had been done. As Chuck put it a few months ago, in a different context, _'The die cast,_' the Rubicon crossed.

"It's complicated. I mean, I feel alive."

Casey grunted, then jumped in angrily.

"Complicated my ass. The answer is no. Emma, whatever sick game Bartowski is playing," Casey caught Sarah glaring at him, "let me clarify, whatever sick game the _living _Bartowski is playing, the answer is no. Four years ago, I thought . . . I hoped . . . that her death was just elaborate deep-cover spy crap. I took tissue samples from the body, right before the cremation. The DNA was a perfect match." He turned towards Sarah. "We spread _her _ashes right on this beach. It was a beautiful ceremony."

"I know, I was there." Chuck said meekly.

"It's really a simple question. Sarah, are you alive or aren't you?" Ellie inquired.

Sarah inhaled deeply. Or, at least, she perceived that she inhaled deeply. By now, she had stopped actively thinking that her reality, or what she perceives as reality, was simulated. But Emma's and Ellie's poignant inquiries made her cognizant that she wasn't really breathing. She wasn't really on a beach. She wasn't really Sarah. And yet she was, in a way. She had most of her memories. She had her emotions. She _thought_ like her. _'I think, therefore I am.' _ Of course, Descartes never contemplated this, never contemplated _her_. Eventually, Sarah mustered up the courage to answer Ellie.

"Sarah, your Sarah. She died. But here I am."

Molly started giggling. "So what it is it. . . do you um, like, feast the brains of the living?"

Emma's eyes spun towards Molly and shot her a piercing glance. "Molly, cut it. Be nice to your sister." she said harshly. _'Or whatever this is,'_ she thought. Once again, she brought her eyes inside her goggles, to wipe the tears away.

"Brains, huh? Actually, I was thinking of trying some," Sarah said, drawing everyone's attention, "But I decided I prefer Rocky Road."

Carina started laughing. The absurdity of the entire situation. "You know, Chuck, if you want a woman who just lies there . . . you don't have to look to the _dead_. It's unusual, but I can _accommodate_ your, um, preferences," she remarked, semi-sarcastically, but with enough seriousness behind it to warrant a cutting glare from Sarah.

"Ugh, Carina, you're talking about my husband." Sarah quipped.

"Ex-husband, technically. Till death do us part and all. What do you say Chuck? How about you trade the stiff for a stiffy?"

"ENOUGH!" Chuck screamed at the top of his lungs. "Folks. Everyone. This isn't a joke, or a game."

Dead silence filled the simulated beach. Chuck's avatar stood virtually emotionless. But the tenor of his voice, his pain, his frustration, it reverberated through the group.

After about ten seconds, Ellie responded: "Alright, Chuck, explain."

Chuck contemplated how to respond. He'd run this scenario a thousand times over in his head. Calculated the various approaches. Simulated the potential reactions. The right, or wrong, words could make or break everything. Soon enough, he decided on a course of action – the one he believed the most likely to draw a sympathetic response. He shrugged his shoulders, although his avatar didn't follow suit.

"Well, Ellie, I guess you could say that, um, you created her."

Sarah scowled at Chuck. What was he playing at? Langston Graham was responsible for her origin. And Chuck knew it.

Ellie barked back indignantly. "I did no such thing."

Chuck pressed her. "You did. You didn't mean to, but you did. Do you remember those brain scans you took, after Sarah lost her memory, and the regular check-up scans afterwards?"

Ellie just nodded her head.

"The amazing NSA technology you used, that was generations ahead of its time?"

Ellie kept nodding.

"How it was supposedly developed for some NSA study on brain injuries?"

"Yes, so what?" Ellie asked.

"Ellie, the study was a load of crap. A cover. The technology was really developed as an interrogation technique. A way to extract memories from a suspect's brain, and then search those memories to obtain information. The study was a test, to see if the technology worked."

Sarah's scowl intensified. _Why the lies, Chuck? _

"Oh my god. . . so you're saying that, when I scanned Sarah's brain, I scanned . . . I created her?"

"Pretty much, yeah. What's standing in front of you is a perfect A.I. replica of Sarah Bartowski, captured as of her last brain scan." Chuck explained.

"Almost perfect," Sarah clarified.

"Yes, almost perfect." Chuck said, despondently.

"What do you mean almost perfect?" Emma probed.

"There are gaps in, well, me. In my memories. Most are pretty small. But a few from my childhood are a bit bigger. That's where you all come in."

"I don't understand, Sarah. What do you want from us?" Emma asked, trying to temper her emotions. It was so unbelievable. Yet it was in front of her. Her daughter. Or a piece of her. Kind of. But, perhaps, better than nothing?

"Ditto." Casey interjected.

"Dude." Devon remarked.

Chuck took command of the breach. "Let me explain. I've tailored a version of Jeff's program, and tied it into JJ."

"JJ?" Molly asked.

"It's a device that reads thoughts and creates images based on them. The other program, Jeff's program, searches for things. Tied together, and they will work in tandem to search your minds for your memories, your thoughts, about Sarah, then project them – sort of like little movies."

Dead silence filled the beach again. Sarah broke it a few seconds later. "The point of all this is to make me, well, more _me_. Help me fill in the last pieces.

Ellie shook her head frantically, and her avatar followed suit:

"Chuck, for what purpose? No matter how she was created, no matter what this . . . _thing _. . . might know . . . this isn't Sarah. This isn't real. You can't hold on to a fantasy. You've got to start living again."

Chuck looked longingly at his sister. Briefly taking a peek underneath the VR goggles, he walked over to her_, _the real her, and gave her a deep hug.

"I know sis. Sarah is gone. But this isn't about me, I promise."

"Then what?"

"Stephen. Diana. That's who. What I'm asking you to do is, well, is give them a gift. The best gift we all can give."

"I still don't understand." Ellie asked, searchingly. She so wanted to trust her brother. To believe that there was some kind of explanation for this beyond his own loneliness and desperation.

Chuck considered his response, and chose the following words:

"Growing up, how many times did I ask about Mom? About what she was like? She left when I was so young that I barely remembered her. Fragments mostly. Or, _today_, how often do you think about Dad and Mom? How often do you wish that Clara and Peter could have met them, gotten to know them? They are nothing but fables to them. What would you give to be able to bring Peter over to Dad, sit him on Dad's lap, and let Dad tell him stories of his life?

Or even us . . . when we were in our twenties . . . and they were both gone? Weren't there times when you just wish you could have spoken with them, gotten their advice?

I can't do that for Dad or for Mom. But for Sarah? For my children. . . for your children? Well, the universe has given us an incredible, once-in-a-billion gift."

Ellie shook her head. Everything he was saying made sense. But something about it unnerved her. She could feel that he wasn't telling her everything, but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Nevertheless, she answered him:

"But Chuck, they're so young. This will just confuse them, terrify them."

"I know. They're young now. But they're growing up fast. I still think of Stephen as the little boy who'd toddle into the living room, take off his diaper, and pee on my Playstation, smiling and giggling the whole time. Now? He's learning to code. By the time he's a Bat Mitzvah, he'll be old enough."

"Bar Mitzvah?" Carina smirked, "I didn't know you joined the Tribe."

Chuck laughed a little. "Err. . . ignore that. Damn Intersect side effects. But you get my point."

Silence again filled the beach. This time, it was Alex Grimes who ended it.

"I do," she said, "I never had a Dad growing up. I thought he," Alex turned towards Casey's avatar, "I thought _you _died a war hero."

Casey looked at her, his avatar remaining stoic. But, underneath the VR goggles, the Casey heard her words. It was nothing he hadn't heard, hadn't known before. Yet they still filled him with sadness. He'd tried his hardest to be a good father for the past twelve years. Still, he knew that nothing he did could ever make up for missing her childhood. As Casey looked at her, deep in thought, Alex resumed speaking:

"I heard stories about you, Dad, growing up. Lots of stories. But the only image I had of you was that of a cardboard cut-out war hero, not a person. Not a dad. Do you know how hard I wanted, how hard I prayed, as a little girl for the chance to meet you, to know you? Sometimes, I guess, God hears prayers. He heard mine. I got you back in the flesh. The real you. The three-dimensional human being, not the fantasy hero of a little girl's imagination. I can't do that for Stephen or Diana. But, if I can give them a chance to one day get to know their mother, _really _know her . . . then, well, I'm in."

"Me too," Molly said. "I remember her," turning to Sarah, "I remember _you_. But, every day, the memories get just a bit dimmer. And what a 12-year-old remembers, it's different than what I'd want to know now. You know? Like, how do I know when a boy likes me? When do Iet him get to second base? That kinda thing."

"Gross," Casey jibed.

"Molly!" Emma interjected.

"Fine, Mom. But, I mean, you get my point. Chuck, if you can bring my sister back to me . . . even a part of her, then I'll do whatever I can to help."

"If this is what you want, Chuck, what Molly wants, I'll help to." Emma said. She left the subtext unsaid, _'If, whatever this is, has a piece of Sarah in her, I want her too. I need her too.' _

Morgan spoke next. "Same buddy. It's weird and all. But we've been doing weird our whole life. Just remember the four laws of robotics."

"Isn't it three laws?" Chuck asked.

"You're forgetting the zeroth rule.

Chuck nodded his head. "Ah yes, good point."

"Can someone end the nerd festival, please?" Casey said, turning towards Chuck, "Chuck. You heard what my daughter said. Because of the choices I made, my little girl grew up without knowing her father. If I can do better for Sarah, for her kids, I'm in."

"Me too." Carina said.

"Ellie, Devon, that just leaves you."

"Dude, you're my bro. And Sarah was like my sister, kinda. In an uncomfortably super-hot sort of way."

"Devon!" Ellie quipped.

"But what I meant to say is that my first loyalty is to my wife. I'll go along with whatever Ellie says."

"Ellie, it comes down to you. What say you?" Chuck asked.

"Chuck, promise me something first."

"What?"

Ellie took off her VR goggles and grasped her brother's hand. She looked at him intently, then put the goggles back on:

"Promise me that this is really for your kids. That this isn't some insane, desperate attempt to hold on to her. You're still young. You're an incredibly guy, an incredible catch, " Ellie glared at Sarah, "someone _living_, someone you can settle down with, or even just have a _real _relationship with. Promise me that this isn't for you, and I'll do it."

Chuck squeezed Ellie's hand back, and responded: "Sis, I promise you, this is about the kids."

"Ok then. Then Devon and I will do our part. Just tell us what we need to do."

"Just sit back, and enjoy the show. The VR goggles you are all wearing contain modified versions of JJ and Jeff's program. All I need to do is press this button. Last chance, anyone out?" Chuck said.

Hearing nothing but silence for thirty seconds, Chuck pressed the button in his hand. Within a few minutes, JJ had succeeded in copying all the relevant memories, and transferring them to Chuck's computer.

The mission complete, everyone took off their goggles, and returned downstairs to Stephen's party.

_**Eight Hours Later **_

Sarah paced around a virtual mock-up of the living room in their old Echo Park apartment. She didn't know why, but she preferred this location. After his afternoon, she needed to leave the beach. Be someplace homier.

"Chuck, was it really all necessary? The lying?" she asked.

"I told them what they wanted to hear. And it was the truth, most of it." Chuck responded.

"Sis, I promise you, this is about the kids." Sarah answered, mimicking Chuck's voice in a sly, sarcastic fashion.

"And what I told them was true. . . from a certain point of view. The kids will benefit."

"Don't Kenobi me." Sarah shot back, angrily.

"Fine, I told them what I needed to, to get them to help us. You heard Ellie. If she knew . . . if they knew . . . what we were really planning, they wouldn't help. They'd try to stop me. Hell, they'd have me committed."

"Chuck, they love you, all of them."

"And that's why they'd have me committed."

Sarah reached out and wrapped her arms around him, or his avatar anyway. He felt like cold concrete. But it was better than nothing. A way of showing her understanding. Particularly given the next item on the agenda.

"There's something else I wanted to talk with you about, Chuck."

"What is it?"

"There's one more person. One more set of memories."

"Who?"

"You won't like this, Chuck. But it's someone that I spent a lot of time, once, with for a few months. And my memories of that time are really foggy. It's like I actively tried to suppress them."

* * *

**January 17, 2023 ADX Florence Supermax Facility, Florence Colorado**

Chuck and Casey sat in the visitors' room of the supermax prison facility, bored out of their minds. The prison had confiscated all their electronic devices and reading materials. Special precautions, they were told, for this prisoner. The only thing they were permitted to bring in was a box of donuts. _"I guess our NSA badges give us some privileges_" Casey had quipped, as the prison staff stripped him of his electronics.

"You sure you want to go through with this?" Casey inquired. They'd been waiting for twenty minutes. Maybe the prisoner would refuse to see them. He'd actually been hoping for that outcome.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure I don't. But _she _asked." Chuck responded.

"The digital zombie?"

"Don't call her that." Chuck responded curtly. "Whatever she is, it's important that my children get a rounded picture of my wife. The good with that bad. The worst insult you can do to someone's memory is to pretend that they perfect. It's important to remember the flaws, the mistakes, just as much as the good times. That's how you remember the person, the whole person. That's why _she_'s there. And that's why we're here."

"Whatever. Looks like the party's started." Casey answered, gesturing towards the door.

The door creeped open. Led by a guard, a tall, morbidly obese prisoner entered the room. He stood 6''2, and topped 370 pounds. Layers of fat lapped over his waist-belt, dripping over his prison-issue orange pants. His long, shaggy, and unkept salt-and-pepper beard dangled nearly six inches below his third chin. His swirled, bedraggled hair tossed back-and-forth, uncontrollably. Most of it rested on his shoulders, but stray strands cascaded several inches further down. Chuck surveyed his opponent. The prisoner conveyed an appearance that struck Chuck as that of approximately one-third outrageously fat mountain-man logger, one third homeless vagrant, and one-third Hassidic Jew. Seeing Chuck, the prisoner's brown eyes burned with red with rage, while his pimpled-face erupted with pain. The prisoner smirked:

"Chuck? I would say that I was sorry to hear about Sarah but, well, the bitch had it coming. Why are you here?"

"Hello Daniel. Sit down. I brought donuts."

"Ohhhhh, donuts," Daniel Shaw exclaimed excitedly, swiping a Boston creme from the open box Chuck placed before him.

* * *

**January 17, 2023 Boca Raton Florida, Winter House of Gen. Diane Beckman**

It didn't take long for Jeff Barnes' name to leak to the press. It wasn't the counter-terrorism operations on D-Day that did it. It was the flurry of legal motions which followed, seeking to restrain assets tied to terror, organized crime, and other illegalities. In total, the Government sought to restrain and ultimately forfeit close to $1 trillion in assets. Those motions needed to rely upon evidence. And, while a dedicated, large team of Assistant U.S. Attorneys did their best to keep that evidence under seal, it only took one sloppy electronic filing by an over-stressed paralegal to give up the goose.

Within three days, Jeff's name was plastered on every major newspaper, and talked about on every major network. "Meet The Man Who Won The War On Terror," proclaimed the Wall Street Journal. "The Man Who Ended Organized Crime," declared the Washington Post. "The Greatest American Hero Since Eisenhower," or so said CNN. Within a week after that, the President awarded the Medal of Honor to "My friend Jeff, a totally wonderful, amazing, classy guy. With great hair."

Sitting in her Florida home, where she enjoyed her semi-retirement, all the hoopla over Mr. Barnes made Gen. Diane Beckman sick. To be sure, he was a good asset. Maybe the most valuable asset since Chuck. He played his part well. But the idea, the planning, the key changes to the programming. All that came from Chuck. Alas, Gen. Beckman thought to herself, it didn't seem fair that the world would never no his name. He would live and die in anonymity. Yes, that's how it worked for agents. But, for someone with his contributions? It didn't seem right.

At least Chuck got something he wanted, General Beckman thought. He wanted Jeff safe. And Jeff was safe. Hell, Jeff was better protected than the President. It's hard to kill or bunker the most famous man in the country. More than that, Jeff would be needed for the next 10 years to testify in court and authenticate evidence. And with the reward money he earned, courtesy of federal whistleblowing statutes? Jeff wouldn't just live. He'd live as a billionaire, tucked away safely in a large compound in the Blue Ridge Mountains, guarded by the Secret Service, emerging periodically for public appearances and court testimony.

But Jeff being said wasn't enough, General Beckman knew. Chuck's requests, his pleas . . . that's just Chuck being his old selfless self. She owed the man more than that. Heck, the United States owed him more than that. And she was going to find some way, some small way, to make sure he got the recognition he deserved.

* * *

**Back at the prison**

Chuck stared at Shaw, who had happily already gobbled down the Boston creme and had moved on to a strawberry glazed donut. A small smile crept upon Chuck's face, as his mightily rotund former adversary feverishly ripped into the bright pink donut, smashing it into his gaping mouth. Crumbs littered his unkept, wild beard.

"As you might have guessed, Daniel, I'm here for a favor."

"Less talking, more eating." Shaw answered abruptly, as he devoured the last morsel of the strawberry glazed donut and excitedly spotted a double-chocolate frosted circle of pleasure in the upper-left hand corner of the rapidly-depleting baker's dozen box.

"Fine, have it your way." Chuck responded, his smile growing incrementally wider.

Casey jumped in. "So, Shaw. Prison's been good for you. I see you're doing your best to extend the Ring's influence. . . horizontally, that is."

"Fat jokes. How mature Casey." Shaw answered.

"Casey enough," Chuck said, turning to his longtime partner, "he's not a threat, you can leave us . . . heck, in his condition, even Morgan, or _the Morgan_, could kick his ass. Wait outside."

"Roger that. Can't stand the sight of this traitorous scum anyway." Casey said, rising from the table and exiting the secure visiting room.

After Casey closed the door, Shaw took a break from his donut feast and spoke.

"Alright Chuck, what's this really about? What's this favor?"

"It's a long story, Shaw."

"I've got plenty of time. Life, in fact. Well, life plus twenty years. That vindictive whore of a judge."

Chuck ignored Shaw's response, and continued: "The short story is . . . I'm building a repository of Sarah's memories. The good. . ." Chuck stopped and stared intently at Shaw, "as well as the bad."

"Aw, can't get over your poor dead wife. How sad." Shaw said, pouting his lips sarcastically.

"It's not like that. It's not about me. It's about our kids. When they get old enough, I want them to know her. Not just the idealized Sarah that I tell stories about. But the real, flawed person. That includes learning about . . . her mistakes." Chuck said, raising his eyes from the table to glare at Shaw upon mouthing the word "mistakes."

"Aw. How touching. The answer is no. Why would you possibly think that I would help you, Chucky-boy?" Shaw replied, as he shoved another donut in his mouth. "Thanks for the donuts, by the way."

Chuck stared him down.

"I don't _think _you'll do it, Shaw. I _know_ you'll do it." Chuck stated, trying hard to disguise his smile.

"Fine, how do you _know _I'll do it," Shaw answered. As he spoke, he raised his hands to make a "scare quotes" gesture with his fingers tied to the word "know."

Chuck looked eagerly at him. "You'll do it because, a long time ago, you used to be a good person. Because this is about helping innocent children learn about their mother, and because you used to dedicate your life to helping the innocent."

Shaw blew raspberries.

Undaunted, Chuck continued. "You'll also do it because, you won, Shaw. More than you'll ever know. You wanted my wife dead, and she's dead. You wanted me broken, and I'm broken. Far more broken than if you succeeded a dozen years ago. If you had killed Sarah then, I might have mourned for a year, or two. But I would have gotten over it. Found somebody else. Now, I'm ruined for life."

Shaw smiled, then looked away dismissively.

"You may also do it because, essentially, I'm asking you to torture me with stories about how – for months – you manipulated and slept with the love of my life."

Shaw chuckled to himself, and he reached for yet another donut.

"You're asking me to torture you? Well, now you're getting somewhere Chuck."

Chuck shot a stern glance back. Then he completely let his poker face drop.

"But, ultimately, you'll do it because . . . I poisoned these donuts."

Shaw's mouth stood agape. Moist donut was still swishing around on his tongue. Quickly, he dropped the partially eaten donut that had been just half-an-inch from his mouth. He reached in with his fingers, and frantically tried to pull the last remaining crumbs from his cheeks. But he knew several whole donuts had long entered his digestive track.

"You're bluffing." Shaw answered.

Chuck's beamed a happy, crazy-face smile at him. He didn't directly answer the question.

"It's a very inventive poison. Completely undetectable. Even now, it's working its way through your body. The pain will start in maybe an hour or so. I expect your misery will be quite delectable. For me anyway."

"I know you Chuck. You wouldn't do something like this." Shaw said, staring at him in disbelief.

"You know me? Maybe once you did. Not anymore. Since we last spoke, I got married, had children, became a widow . . . Oh, and, a few months ago, I orchestrated the deaths of tens-of-thousands of people." Chuck replied, a euphoric happiness emanating from his entire body. "Don't worry Daniel. All of them were monsters, like yourself. And you know what? I'm ok with it. I really am. Do you know what I'm saying, Daniel?"

"What"

"I'm saying that we haven't been properly introduced."

Shaw stared at Chuck in utter disbelief, as Chuck spoke.

"Hello, I'm Charles Bartowski. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Chuck finished his declaration, then burst into a maniacal laugher, pounding the table as he laughed. Eventually, he managed to compose himself. "You know, Daniel. I've always wanted to say that."

Shaw's mouth stayed agape, as he sat speechless in the mix of terror and bewilderment.

Chuck spoke again:

"What is it Shaw? Would you prefer I say it in Spanish?"

* * *

**In Florida**

General Beckman looked down at the order. It was ready for her signature. The pen quivered in her hand. Forty years from now. 2067. She would almost certainly be dead. Chuck would probably still be alive, but an old man. Long retired. Forty years would be the right amount of time, she thought. Enough time for his enemies to die themselves, get locked up, or lose any passion for pursuing vendettas.

Any shorter period of time, and the risk to Chuck increased unacceptably. Any longer period, and the risk that Chuck would be dead was too great. Besides, in the unlikely event that there were still active threats out there against him, her successors could always countermand the order. But it was imperative that she do this now. Not only because she owed it to Chuck. But because her successors wouldn't. She didn't want to run the risk that her successors simply forgot about the man.

She signed the order. It might take forty years, but all mission reports through the date of her signature would be declassified. Chuck would finally get his due.

* * *

**Back at the prison**

"You're bluffing. What, you woke up one day, Chuck, and decided that you're a villain now? I don't believe it." Shaw said defiantly.

Chuck paused. He studied his opponent carefully. Shaw was nervous. The tics in his face. The bead of sweat dripping down his chin. The crevices of fat, shifting.

"A villain? I suppose it's just a matter of time. Ever see the Dark Knight, Shaw? You either die the hero, or you live long enough to become the villain?"

"So?"

"It kinda applies to us. Don't ya think? What was it, 12-13 years ago, you almost died a hero trying to blow up a Ring base? But I saved you. And you lived. . . well, long enough. Meanwhile, I became the hero." Chuck stared deeply at Shaw, piercing him with his eyes, while maintaining an unnervingly happy smile. Chuck continued:

"Well, let's just say that I've lived a long time since then. Maybe it's my turn."

Shaw looked at him in stunned silence.

"All that said, you're right." Chuck commented.

"I knew it."

"Technically, it's not a poison." Chuck exclaimed.

"Huh?"

"It's nanites. Dozens of miniature little machines. Far too small for the human eye to see. Nasty little buggers. I designed them myself. They'll create microscopic tears in your flesh, your organs, your cell walls. Not enough to kill you. But enough . . ." Chuck smile grew gleeful, as his eyebrows danced, "to keep you in delicious agony, near – but not over – the brink of death. Your pain will be immense. Even better, my nanites. They don't just tear. They repair. They'll restore you to perfect health. To give you a brief respite," Chuck's eyes bugged out of their sockets, "so that your torture can begin all anew. It will last for decades, Shaw. Decades of magnificent torment. My personal little preview for you of the Inferno that I wish awaited you."

As Chuck finished, he caught a whiff of a foul, distinctive odor. He looked at Shaw, curiously. Shaw no longer looked terrified. Not exactly, anyway. Embarrassment had replaced terror as the dominant emotion radiating from his face. Shaw's eyes looked at Chuck, then turned their gaze downwards, guiltily, towards his prison-issue pants.

Daniel Shaw had shat himself.

**Four hours later, Visitor's Lobby**

"So, you get what you need?" Casey asked.

"Yeah."

"He go for it?"

"Yup."

Casey chucked. "And to think, I used to call you 'moron.'"

Chuck and Casey burst out laughing together. After a few hearty cackles, Chuck composed himself enough to speak:

"No kidding. If I actually had designed nanites that could repair flesh, you'd think I would have . . . I don't know . . . shared them with the world to save millions of lives? But no. Shaw bought that I kept them a secret to use as a torture device. For someone who used to be a good spy, the guy never was too bright."

"Well, Bartowski, I've been telling you for years that you're a damn good liar. You're not a bad interrogator either. If this whole 'lock yourself in your room as an analyst' thing doesn't work out, give me a call. That said, tell me one thing, Chuck."

"What?"

"Did you put anything at all in those donuts?"

Chuck flashed Casey a mischievous grin. "Maybe a mild laxative," Chuck said, laughing. "I wasn't expecting him to eat so many."

* * *

**January 19, 2023 Casa Bartowski-Wooodcomb**

Devon parked himself at his dining room table, quietly drinking tea and reading a newspaper. A few chairs away, Ellie was hunched over her laptop computer. She stared intently at the screen. She didn't like what she saw. Rage and frustration boiled to the surface as her stare intensified, reviewing a mix of code and brain scans.

"Damn him," she said.

"Who, Babe?," Devon responded, peaking his head up from his tea.

"Chuck. The bastard. He keeps lying to me, to us."

"Whoah, Babe, what are you talking about?"

"Chuck. He told us that 'Sarah,' was an A.I.," Ellie said, flashing a "scare quotes" gesture. "Technically, that's not wrong. . . it's what he didn't tell us. Something just didn't ring right to me. I looked over her scans, her code. He's been lying to us. Lies of omission, but damn big ones."

"Babe, are you sure? Coding isn't your thing."

"I know. But that's actually the problem. I don't know a damn thing about computer programming. My only exposure is what I've absorbed through the neurology work I've done on the Intersect. But, still, I had this nagging suspicion that I'd recognize the code. And I was right. It's familiar. There are some differences, but the basic architecture is the same . . . the code for 'Sarah' . . . it's Intersect code. From what I can tell, it's a mixture of the original version that Chuck got fifteen years ago, and the version that Harvey Winterbottom downloaded before that."

"So you're saying . . ."

"The thing he calls 'Sarah.' _It's_ not just an A.I., _it's_ an Intersect personality. _It's _a far more advanced, complex program than the Volkov personality that Harvey downloaded . . . But that's a difference of degree, rather than kind."

"Ok. She's an Intersect personality. So what, Babe?"

"Devon, you don't understand. An A.I. is designed to live, exist, in a completely virtual world. An Intersect personality is modeled like the human brain. Just like you or me, it needs constant sensory input – smells, touches, taste, or it will go insane. It can survive as a program for a little bit but, in the long run, an intersect needs a host." Ellie paused for a moment, her mouth open, as a flash of terror overtook her. "Oh my god. Chuck. He _knows_."

"Huh?"

"Last summer. Chuck came to me, asking for my advice on sensory deprivation. He made up some story about whether the NSA should use it as a torture method."

"He said what?" Devon responded, worryingly.

"Devon. He's been lying to us for months. I'm going to tear Chuck a new one. Where is he now?"

"He's out with Abby. He left about an hour ago. He said he had to help her with something."

Ellie's face immobilized. Her skin turned pale white. Her eyes froze into ice crystals. She didn't know how much time had past when Devon snapped her out of it. "Babe, you there? Everything ok."

"Devon, everything is not ok. I think my little brother is about to do something horrible. I think Abby is the host."

* * *

**January 19, 2023 Castle**

Chuck looked down upon Abby's still body. She was slumped over a table at Castle. Her head rested gently upon her hands, on the main table. Her eyes were closed. Light blush and lipstick accentuated her olive skin, making glisten with radiance. Her light blue casual sweater hugged her body snuggly. She looked angelic, peaceful. Far more peaceful than her life had been. It was sad, Chuck thought, what her life had come to. What the promise of her youth had devolved into.

With that, he picked up Abby's unconscious body. He wrapped it carefully in his arms, and carried it to Castle's medical bay.

* * *

A/N: So, well, all that happened. Has Chuck really gone off the deep end? We're kind of racing to the conclusion now. Just a couple of pretty short chapters left. Apologies for the long delay in posting this ... life intervened, and a heck of a lot went on in this chapter.

As always, I love reviews, please leave one. Also, if someone could post this to the Facebook group I'd be appreciative!


	27. The Echo of Memory

**A/N: I don't Chuck, I don't own these characters (not even Abby). I'm not making any money off this.**

* * *

_Previously in Chuck: The Echo of_ Memory

_Chapter 5: _

_Jeff: Chuck, nice going! Trading in Sarah for a younger model? Maybe something that comes in Greek? Or perhaps Lebanese? _

_Chapter 10:_

_Ellie: Truth, Chuck. What's Project Firestorm? _

_Chapter 18:_

_Abby: God Damnit. I think I love him. _

_Chapter 26:_

_Ellie: "Devon, everything is not ok. I think my little brother is about to do something horrible. I think Abby is the host."_

_Chapter 26:_

_Chuck looked down upon Abby's still body. She was slumped over a table at Castle. Her head rested gently upon her hands, on the main table. Her eyes were closed. Light blush and lipstick accentuated her olive skin, making glisten with radiance. Her light blue casual sweater hugged her body snuggly. She looked angelic, peaceful. Far more peaceful than her life had been. It was sad, Chuck thought, what her life had come to. What the promise of her youth had devolved into._

_With that, he picked up Abby's unconscious body. He wrapped it carefully in his arms, and carried it to Castle's medical bay._

* * *

**January 19, 2023 Casa Bartowski-Wooodcomb**

Devon shook his head, incredulously. "Babe, come on. This is Chuck we're talking about here."

"I know." Ellie said. She had retreated, wrapping herself up in a little ball, sitting with her arms snugly tied around her legs, and her hands covering her mouth.

"You really think Chuck would, what, basically murder somebody?"

Ellie paused for a moment, then responded. "Devon, ask yourself this. If I died, and you could trade one life – one random life – to bring me back . . . would you do it?"

"I . . . I . . . don't know."

"If you died, Devon. I might. I'm not proud of myself. But I might. . . Chuck?"

"Chuck is the kindest human being I've ever met. . . present company excluded." Devon protested.

"Devon, don't flatter me. Before everything, Chuck was better, kinder than me. He was the best person either of us ever knew. But something in him broke when Sarah died. You know it. I know it. Ever since, he's been . . . off."

"He's been better lately." Devon noted.

"And now we know why. It's not just the spying, the job. It's . . . that _thing_. The program. He's been talking to it for months, at least since the summer. And all this time, he's been faced with a choice. . . find a host, and bring something like the love of his life back, or watch a _thing _he calls 'Sarah' slip into irreversible insanity. What would you do? Would you pay the price to not just save my life, but to save my mind from complete psychosis?"

"But it's not Sarah, he knows that."

"Maybe. But he's not well. He hasn't been for a while. He might not conceptualize it. This _program_, it has her memories, her emotions. Hell, it may even be sentient. Would Chuck trade one sentient life for another?" Ellie posed, waves of frustration and fear crashing over her. "What do you think he's been doing for fifteen years with the CIA, the NSA? Making choices which do exactly that. Now, what if the life he could save was something very much like Sarah?"

Ellie shook her head. "God, I hope I'm wrong. But it explains, everything . . . the lies, the subterfuge."

Devon walked over and hugged his wife tightly. He kissed her on the top of the head. "Babe, calm down. We'll call Chuck. He's probably just having a coffee with Abby or something. There's a logical explanation for all of this, I'm sure of it."

Ellie gasped. "Oh my god. I forgot. He's with Abby now. We need to call him. . . or stop him." Immediately, she pulled out her phone and called Chuck's number. It went straight to voicemail. She tried Abby's number. Same result.

"Damnit. Voicemail. I'm calling Casey. We need to find them." She dialed Casey. He picked up on the second ring. Ellie spoke into the phone, frantically.

"Hi John. . . it's Ellie. Do you know where Chuck and Abby are? It's important."

Casey responded calmly, collectedly. "Ellie, what's this about?"

"God, I hope I'm being paranoid. But I think Chuck's about to do something awful. I think he's going to try to download that 'Sarah' program into Abby," Ellie answered, speaking about a million-words-a-minute.

Casey didn't respond. After hearing dead silence for several seconds, Ellie followed up.

"John. . . can you say something?"

"I'm thinking." Casey answered.

"You must think I'm going crazy."

"I don't think you're going crazy." Casey clarified, then paused for two seconds. "I think you might be right."

"Why do you say that?" Ellie inquired.

"Because I just pulled up a live feed from Castle. Chuck's got Abby, unconscious, in a medical bed. It looks like he's examining her."

"Oh my god. We've got to get over there." Ellie exclaimed. She motioned to Devon "stay with the kids," and Devon nodded his agreement.

Casey responded: "I'll meet you there in five. Don't worry Ellie, we'll take care of this."

Ellie hung up her phone, grabbed her jacket, and fled out the door.

* * *

**January 19, 2023 Castle**

Casey opened the door to Castle. With his right hand, he extended a tranq pistol. With his left, he signaled "be quiet" to Ellie, while motioning for her to follow him in. Cautiously, they descended the steps. From the corner of Casey's eye, he caught a partially-obscured glimpse of Chuck in the medical bay. From Casey's vantage point, it looked like Chuck was bending over a perfectly still Abby, performing some kind of test. Just then, Ellie slipped on the steps. She grabbed the guardrail to keep from falling, causing a _clang _sound to reverberate throughout Castle.

The _clang_ startled Chuck. He turned around, and was surprised to see Casey and Ellie coming down the steps. Casey pulled up his tranq pistol and aimed. A tranq dart hit his neck, just as Chuck was mustering the words "Oh, hi guy-."

_**Four Hours Later**_

"Casey, isn't Morgan joining us?" Ellie asked.

Casey waived his hands in the air, frustratedly. "He got tied up. Some kind of HR shitstorm at the Buy More. He can't leave."

"What could possibly be so important?" Ellie inquired, pressing.

"Do you remember Gabby Juárez, the nerd herder?" Casey probed.

"Yeah."

"She told a customer we've got to get rid of all the Mexicans."

"Isn't she Mexican?" Ellie said, somewhat in disbelief.

From a chair sitting about ten feet away, a now-conscious Abby joined the conversation. As she spoke, she fought both the forceful pounding in her skull and the parched taste in her mouth. "She was born here. She doesn't believe in being a hyphenated-American. She's kind of a John Bircher."

Casey chuckled. "My kind of lady. I mean, except for the whole getting rid of Mexicans part. That's wrong. She single?"

Abby smirked. "She is but. . . let's just say I'm more her type than you are."

"Ah. . .," Casey acknowledged. "Got it."

"Shh. . .," Ellie pointed to Chuck, directing Casey's and Abby's attention. "he's waking up."

Chuck's eyes flickered awake. His head was pounding. He'd been tranqued before, and was used to the feeling. But he still didn't like it. He was groggy and his skull hurt like hell. Blinking frantically to wake himself up, he gazed around the room. Casey and Ellie were there, sitting on chairs across from him. Abby too. She was awake, but looked like hell. Chuck felt a tension, a pain. He looked down, and saw ropes tied around his arm.

"Guys, um, what's this about?" Chuck asked.

_**Five Hours Earlier **_

Abby stared the screen. In her left arm rested a large glass of bourbon, poured over the rocks. The remainder of the bottle, now half-empty, sat two feet away from her. She wasn't a fan of bourbon. But the arak had run out, and this is what she found around Castle. It would do. She took another gulp, and hit "play" once again. It was the video from ten days ago.

_"Can I be frank with you?," General Beckman had told her._

_"Certainly. Don't bullshit a bullshitter." She had responded. _

_"You've done well on this assignment. But this assignment catered to your rather unique background and skillset. For the most part, you are a mediocre agent. Your marksmanship is unreliable. Your judgment is slapdash. You lack caution and prudence, as proven most recently by this damn phone call. And, while it hasn't affected your work so far, your drinking and emotional instability worry me. More than that, your politics remain problematic for our work. Like it or not, the policy of this Administration – and every Administration – has been to support the territorial integrity of Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran. If that means shitting on your people, so be it."_

_She protested, she remembered it: "General, my people are the American people."_

_"Acknowledged. My point remains the same: without this assignment, without Chuck, where does that leave you? Probably back doing the seduction crap we had you doing in Latin America. Even then, your future looks grim. You are 32, almost 33. Slowly but surely, time and age will vanquish your looks and allure. You've got three years, maybe five, before we'd phase you out of seductions in favor of some fresher, more nubile piece of meat right off the Farm. And, unlike Carina Miller, don't think for a second that you'd find a soft-landing spot my moving up the ranks to a Section Chief or Assistant Director position. Those positions are for the best-of-the-best, not for the middle-of-the-pack. Be grateful for what you have here, Agent Cooper. From what I've seen, Chuck likes you. He depends upon you. There are far worst places to go for a terminal assignment."_

Ten days ago, after that conversation, only two things kept her going: (1) alcohol; and (2) the hope, faint as it was, that she might one day have a future with Chuck. Now that hope had been dashed. Not only was Chuck still in love with a dead woman, he literally remained in some kind of screwy relationship with his dear departed. The absurdity of it all shook Abby to the core. So no future with Chuck. Only a mind-numbingly boring life, protecting a good man who cared for her, but could never give her what she needed from him. That left only the alcohol, for solace. She looked lovingly at the bourbon, then took another large mouthful. Forty minutes and four drinks later, she gathered up the courage to call him.

"H'llo." He answered. She didn't speak, but she breathed. "Abby, is that you? What's up."

"Ch-Ch-Cuuuch, I lovvv." She responded, slurring her words together. _'My god, I'm drunk. Worse than usual,_' she thought.

"Abby, are you ok?"

"Ok? Eyeee-am juust da-ndee, my Chuck-eee-poo. Is there any-ting mooore exciting than watching u-r sexxxyyy self fix computers? It gets me all wet."

"Abby, I'm worried. . . have you been drinking?"

"Oh, u are worrieeed abouth liddle-ol-me? I just had a wee nip of Tennessee."

"Abby, where are you? I'm coming over."

Shortly thereafter, Abby passed on the Castle desk, leaving the video of her conversation with Beckman running in a loop.

_**Present Time**_

"So wait, you thought I was going to what? Basically murder Abby by stuffing Sarah in her brain?" Chuck asked, in disbelief.

"Yes," Ellie said, apologetically.

"But you don't think that now." Chuck questioned.

"No," Ellie answered, waiving her head emphatically. "Abby filled us in. We also saw the surveillance video. We know you came here, found her unconscious, and brought her to the medical bay for testing."

Chuck nodded his head, softly, looking at Abby. She looked mortified, humiliated. And her massive hangover wasn't helping.

"Chuck, there's one thing I don't understand. . . you're not a doctor? Why not get her medical attention?"

"Well, I have some medical knowledge." Chuck answered, pointing to his scalp. "Quite a bit, actually."

"The Intersect." Ellie stated.

Chuck nodded affirmatively. "I had enough to take care of her – to make sure it was just booze, that she didn't take anything, and that she just needed to sleep it off. More than that . . . I was trying to keep this quiet, for her sake."

Casey and Ellie hung their heads, ashamed. Abby just looked longingly at Chuck. Every word he uttered, made her love him more. Which only increased her pain.

Chuck looked up, and turned his head around the room. "Now, guys, can I ask a question? If you know I wasn't planning some homicidal plot . . . why am I still tied up?"

"About that." Ellie answered. "We we're wrong about Abby. But you've still been lying to us, Chuck. We need to know why. We're worried about you."

Casey jumped in. "What she means is, until we're satisfied that you're not intending some kind of other insane plot, you're staying in that chair."

"I'm not planning any insane plots, I promise."

Ellie probed. "Chuck, we know about 'Sarah' . . . what she really is. We also know you need a host, or she'll go mad."

Chuck shook his head. "Ellie, you don't understand."

"What, what don't I understand Chuck? That you've been lying to me, _playing _me, for months? Tell me what don't I understand?"

"You know Peter, how he says I look like that Shazam guy?"

Ellie nodded, quizzically.

"One of Shazam's powers is the Wisdom of Solomon, right?"

"Chuck, now's not the time for comic bo-"

"Not comics, Ellie. The Wisdom of Solomon. Ecclesiastes. 'Enjoy life with the woman you love all the fleeting days of your life that have been granted to you under the sun. For that alone is your portion and out of the means you acquire under the sun. Whatever it is in your power to do, do with all your might. For there is no action, no reasoning, no learning, no wisdom in the grave, where you are going.'"

Ellie looked at her younger brother, dumbfounded. "I don't understand." She said.

Chuck explained: "Sarah. Sarah was my portion. We're all going to end up in the same place anyway, pretty soon. We exist for a mere fraction of galactic time, and then return to dust, to nothingness. The question is, how do we spend our remaining days until then? I'd rather spend them with the woman I love. With my portion. And, with all my power, my might, I'm going to do what I can to get there."

Ellie breathed heavily, shook her head, and flailed her arms about. _'How can I get through to him? What's he really planning?,'_ she pondered, then spoke:

"Chuck, that _thing_, that _program_, it's not Sarah. . . it's just an echo of Sarah. An echo of her memories."

"I disagree. But, for the sake of argument, maybe. I'm not saying she's enough. But I don't have a Lazarus Pit. And she's . . . she's better than nothing. She's so much better than nothing."

Ellie bent down and hugged her brother. "You're still young. You can find someone else."

Chuck shook his head defiantly. "You know that psychological profiling tool they stuck in this version of the Intersect?"

Ellie nodded "yes."

"Shortly after I got it, I ran it on myself. You know what it told me? What the odds are that someone like me could find someone new, get remarried, and stay happily married?"

"I don't know."

"Poor. Very poor. Widowers with similar profiles almost always remain alone for the rest of their lives. Some remarry. But very few of those marriages are happy ones. Most end in bitterness and divorce. I think you know why."

Ellie understood. She nodded her head and spoke. "The new wife can never measure up to the old one."

Chuck nodded his head softly, but affirmatively. "Right. I don't want that. I couldn't subject someone to that," Chuck noticed Abby looking at him. He faced her, and spoke: "no matter how much she loved me."

Ellie stood up, and looked down at her brother. "Chuck, you still haven't answered me . . . the Intersect, _Sarah_, she needs a host."

"Ellie, I've worked that out. I've found a solut -" Chuck responded.

"Was she happy?" Abby asked, cutting Chuck off. She spoke softly, weakly. Her voice was barely audible.

"Who?" Chuck asked, turning towards her.

"Your wife, Sarah. Was she happy?"

Chuck immersed himself in thought. Forming the right words, he answered his junior partner.

"She was. Like everyone, she had her ups-and-downs. Things from her past haunted her. But, yes, she was happy. We were happy."

"Then I'll do it." Abby offered, her head hung low, her voice remaining barely above a whisper. "I'll be your host."

"WHAT?" Chuck cried out. "Abby, that's insane. That's not what . . ."

Abby walked over to him. She kneeled down in front of him, her emerald green eyes situated only inches away from his chocolate brown ones. A tear dripped down her hungover face.

"Chuck, look at me. Honestly. What am I? A failure at life. I spend my days wallowing in misery, then drink myself to sleep each night. I have no one. No family. No friends."

"You have me." Chuck answered, looking straight into her eyes.

"I know." Abby responded. She reached out and, with two fingers, tenderly caressed his cheek. As another tear dripped down her side, she extended herself and kissed Chuck. Not a chaste peck, but a soft, faintly moist kiss on his lips. Her lips lingered on his for half a second, before she withdrew, sensing only the slightest hint of reciprocation. She wiped away two more tears. "I have an incredibly sweet man that I'm hopelessly in love with, and who will never reciprocate my feelings. That's not a source of comfort, Chuck."

"You have your work." Chuck pleaded, a tear forming from his own eyes.

"And what work is that? You must have seen the tape. I'm exactly what Beckman says I am. . . a mediocre, emotionally unstable agent. And my options are what, exactly? Either stay here with you, bored out of my mind, and tortured by the love you will never return . . . or do what exactly? Get sent off on slimy seduction missions to be abused by drug dealers? Besides . . . you and I both know that's an optimistic scenario."

"I don't understand." Chuck questioned, his voice soft and calm.

Abby caressed his check again. She reached out, and kissed him on his forehead. "Chuck, do you really think Beckman would send me out in the field again, with what I know about the Intersect? About you? You're not that naive. Even if I stay here with you, I'm one screw-up away from being 'administratively retired.' And if I leave? You know what they'll do. I won't last a week before they/ll find me."

Chuck's mouth stood agape. He knew what Abby meant. His look of worry and Abby's words spooked Ellie.

"Chuck!" Ellie shouted, jumping in. "What does she mean? What is 'administrative retirement'?"

Chuck began to form words, but Casey answered first. "She means that Beckman will order her shot in the back of the head. To keep the Intersect safe, to keep Chuck safe."

Ellie shook her head in disbelief. "Chuck! Tell her she's wrong," Ellie pleaded. Her pleas were met with stoic silence from Chuck and Casey. After ten seconds of no response, Ellie frantically added "Chuck, please!"

"It's a possibility." Chuck mumbled, quietly.

"Chuck! This woman babysat for your children! For my children! You're just going to let the government, what, murder her?"

Casey answered her, "Ellie, this is the business we've chosen. Something like that is always a risk. If Beckman perceives her as a liability then, yes, it could happen."

Ellie stared at Casey, and then turned towards her brother. She looked exasperated. _'Would the CIA just murder its own agents, because their continued existence became inconvenient?' _she thought. She knew that there was a dark side to Chuck's work. But this?

Chuck tried to explain to her: "Ellie, there's not much we can do. We can speak to Beckman. But she's semi-retired. She has this project, maybe one or two others. She's already got one-and-a-half-feet out the door. She doesn't have the pull she used to have. And we don't have the pull with anyone else."

Ellie's sense of disbelief remained, tinged with worry not only for Abby, but for her own brother. "And you? If you become a liability? After all you've done for this country?"

"No, probably not me, sis. But my situation is different."

Abby spoke plainly: "He means that he's a hero, not an unpredictable drunk." She again placed her hand on Chuck's cheek, and caressed it tenderly. She gazed deeply into his dark brown eyes, as she took both hands and softly placed them on his chin.

"Let me do this, Chuck. I'd rather live a happy life as Sarah Bartowski than a miserable one as Abby Cooper or, even worse, turn up dead in a ditch two weeks from now. But, more than that, almost my entire family died senseless deaths. If my life, my choice, can not only bring me happiness, but give you back your wife, give their children back their mother, well . . . then that's a life worth living."

"You shouldn't, you can't, do this for me." Chuck protested.

Abby kissed him again on the lips, this time a chaste peck, then kissed him once on each cheek. "I love you sweetie, and the fact that you're fighting me on this only makes me love you more. But I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for me. For my happiness. For my meaning."

"No, I'm not going to let you commit suicide. That's not the way."

"I don't see it as that. My body, my choice."

"Never liked that slogan." Casey quipped.

"Shut up Casey." Ellie answered.

Abby looked at both of them dismissively, then refocused her attention, her gaze, upon Chuck. "What I mean is, it's my brain. It's my soul. When someone has a brain injury, and their memories get scrambled, do they lose their soul? Did your wife lose her soul ten years ago? I don't think she did. My body. My brain. My soul. Just with a new set of clothes. A happier life."

By now, Chuck's face was littered with his own tears, some of which crested over the remains of Abby's lipstick. "I don't believe in the soul."

Abby ran her fingers through his hair, then began slightly massaging the back of his neck as she answered him. "Well, lucky for you, I do. Growing up as a little girl in Kurdistan without a mother, I pretty much had to."

Chuck put his own hands on her cheeks, feeling her tears. Abby spoke again.

"Look, I'm a terrible Muslim. Always have been. I don't pray. I don't fast on Ramadan. I'm not good with compassion or charity. My liver looks like camouflage. And the only reason I avoid pork is because I can't stand the smell. But I've always believed that I have a _ruh_, an immortal self, an immaterial essence. That's what's important. . . not how I dress it up with one set of memories or another."

Abby reached down again. She kissed Chuck again. This time, an open-mouth kiss. She kissed him tenderly, pouring all of her pain, her misery, her loneliness, and her love into her flickering tongue. Chuck, in tears, reciprocated, responding with his own tongue. Six seconds later, Abby broke the kiss off.

"What was that for?" Chuck asked.

"Just something to remember me by. Come on, it's time to get your wife back."

Chuck tied up in the chair and flooded with tears, softly nodded "yes."

* * *

**Simultaneously, at the Buy More, Morgan's Office**

Morgan rubbed his eyes and temples, resting his frustrated head upon his palms, his elbows on the table. "So tell me what happened next?" he asked, staring down Gabby Juárez, who sat unabashedly prideful in the chair in front of him.

"Well, this haughty-toity HR person struts in with her snooty Received Pronunciation accent, and asks where the loo is." Gabby responded.

"So?" Morgan asked.

"So I told her, 'this is America. Speak American.' If you want to speak English, take your crumpets and go back to your filthy little island, so that you can suck the deceased bony cock of George III."

Morgan pounded his head on his desk. "And you thought this was a good idea, why?"

"We've got to defend our borders."

Morgan lost his patience, "You do realize that my best friend is having a personal crisis, right? And that I've got better things to do than be stuck in an office with you?"

"Tell that to the redcoat." Gabby snipped.

* * *

**Back at Castle**

Chuck broke off his nod, and shook his head.

"No!," Chuck screamed. "Abby, I can't let you do this. Sarah wouldn't want this. I don't want this."

"Chuck, I already told you. . . I'm not doing this for you sweetie. I'm doing this for me. That said, your wife needs a host."

"I'M THE HOST." Chuck shouted.

"What?" Ellie exclaimed.

"Sorry, I didn't want you – any of you – to find out this way."

Anger flickered across Ellie's face. "What do you mean, you're the host?"

Chuck explained. "I found a way to, well, um, I guess you could say . . . partition my brain. Kind of like a computer hard drive. Two personalities, one body. I'm putting Sarah right where she belongs, with me."

Ellie threw her hands up in the air in frustration. "Chuck, are you INSANE? Do you have any idea what that would do to you? Or, if something went wrong, what it would do to me, to Stephen, to Diana?"

Chuck responded, calmly. "I know. Nothing will go wrong."

"How do you know that? How do you know that your brain can handle an entire other person?"

"Ellie, I've had the entire U.S. intelligence database in my head. I think I can fit one person's memories. Besides, I know."

"Chuck, you're not a neurologist."

"No, but I took all your research, all your writings, and pretty much everything else I could find on neurology . . . and I turned it all into a custom Intersect upgrade."

"When?"

"Months ago. This was my plan from the very beginning. Do you remember, when you walked in on me, asleep, back in May, with my research in the background?"

Ellie nodded.

"You asked me what Project Firestorm was?"

Ellie nodded again. "So?"

"Get Morgan on the phone." Chuck directed.

Ellie obliged, pulling out her phone and calling Morgan's cell. She put him on speaker.

Morgan immediately picked up and began speaking. "Ellie, sorry, I'll be over there as soon as I can. I feel horrib…."

"Hey buddy." Chuck interjected.

"Chuck? Man, so good to hear your voice. You doing ok?"

"Swell, Morgan. I've got a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"Can you tell my sister who Firestorm is?"

"What, you mean the Nuclear Man, able to rearrange the atomic structure of inorganic matter?"

Chuck laughed. "Yeah, that's the one. Morgan, can you tell Ellie who Firestorm's secret identity is?"

"Come on, Chuck. That's a trick question. Firestorm is two people, two minds, sharing one body. The most popular incarnation combined Professor Martin Stein with Ronnie Ray-"

Chuck interrupted. "Morgan, that's enough. Thanks."

Ellie's anger dissipated. She spoke sympathetically, "This is what you really want, Chuck?" she asked.

Chuck nodded. "With all my brain, Ellie."

"Then I'll help yo. . . ." Ellie said, her voice dragging as she felt a sting. She looked down to see the tranq dart emerging from her neck, before she passed out.

Abby quickly spun around and fired a dart at Casey, catching him equally by surprise. The dart hit him square in the neck as well, and he collapsed to the floor within a second. He reached for his own weapon, but unconsciousness overtook him long before he could get it out of his holster.

"Unreliable marksmanship my ass," Abby snarked, directing her comment at the sleeping bodies of Casey and Ellie. She whirled around, then glared at Chuck, still strapped to the chair.

"Seriously, Chuck? I mean, I know you're a nerd and all. But literally choosing a computer program over me? Kinda cliché, don't 'cha think? No matter. What was it your idiot pervert friend said back when this all began? Something about trading in Sarah for a younger model? Well, how about something in Kurdish?"

"Abby-" Chuck mouthed, trying to speak.

"Shhhhh." Abby said, firing another dart. She hit Chuck directly in the neck. As Chuck drifted off back into unconsciousness, Abby consoled him:

"Nighty-nite Chuck. Sleep well. When you wake up, your wife will be waiting for you."

* * *

**A/N: **As you can see, we're very close to the end. I anticipate one final chapter, plus the epilogue. And, for once, I'm not sure how it ends. There's the ending I originally envisioned when I began writing this thing, and a very different ending that I thought of in the past few weeks. Not sure which ending is better. Without giving away the ghost, I'll say that one possibility ends with Abby's plan succeeding, while the other one ends with her failing.

There are also a couple of obvious homages in this chapter. First, there's the tv trope (used in Chuck as early as the second episode!) of a misunderstanding causing one or more main characters to think that another main character is doing something insane, evil, etc. Second, there's a distinct Chuck homage of cutting away from a pretty darn interesting main story to a humorous but usually vastly inferior b-story of the Buy Morans doing something idiotic. That was one of the weak spots of the show, but I felt it deserved at least one homage.

I've also tried, throughout the story, to do something not seen much in television & popular media: to incorporate and show respect for faith without actually being religious or promoting religion. The references to Ecclesiastes are kind of at the core of that. It's a wonderful short work and, given its subject matter, I have no idea how it made it into the Bible - i.e., the seeming denial of life-after-death, etc.

As an aside, this story was written and plotted long before Trump's decision this week to, essentially, abandon the Syrian Kurds to be slaughtered by the Turks. I'd say that this is life imitating art, but it's more a reflection of a pretty bipartisan pattern of the U.S. recruiting the Kurds as allies and then abandoning them when its convenient to do so.

One more thing - Joe Watkins (a much better writer than me) said he wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about the revelations/relationship between Chuck and the Sarah personality. My answer would be that this is for each reader to determine for themselves. Unlike the series, this show is not open ended. What happens will be crystal clear, with no loose strings. How you're supposed to feel about it? That's up to you.

Hope you've enjoyed this story, particularly as its reaching its apex. It's probably the most unusual Chuck story that's been written in a while (certainly not the best story, but perhaps one of the more original ones).

Finally, as always, please leave a review! I love hearing from readers - either for good, or for bad.

Also, if someone could post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it.


	28. No Friends But The Mountains

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

* * *

**_Previously in Chuck: The Echo of Memory_**

_Chapter 8_

_Abby: "Quit? And do what? No family. No loved ones. I'm not going to be a full-time therapist again. This is my life now." _

_Chuck: "What about friends? Didn't you grow up with people? Don't you have a Morgan?" _

_Abby: "No friends but the mountains, Chuck."_

_Chapter 27_

_"Shhhhh." Abby said, firing another dart. She hit Chuck directly in the neck. As Chuck drifted off back into unconsciousness, Abby consoled him:_

_"Nighty-nite Chuck. Sleep well. When you wake up, your wife will be waiting for you."_

* * *

**January 19, 2023 11:30 p.m.**

Chuck's eyes fluttered awake on a soft pillow. He looked down to see himself clad in boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, resting on his marital bed. Sarah was lying next to him, smiling. Their noses touched, and they briefly Eskimo kissed.

"Morning sleepyhead," she said, her blond-silver white locks falling over her shoulders.

"I've missed this." Chuck answered, extending his hand to caress her face.

"Me too." She replied. She nudged closer, bringing her face just an inch from her husbands. She got even closer, and their noses touched again. Her nose felt cold, moist, comfortable.

Chuck looked at her peacefully, contently. His gaze pierced deeply. But then his looked turned quizzical, almost perplexed, and his hand massaged her cheek and ear.

"Sarah, one question . . ." he asked.

"Sure, what is it Sweetie?"

"Why do you have green eyes?"

"Don't you remember?" she replied, her hand returning the favor to caress his cheek.

"What?"

"You need to wake up, Sweetie," she said.

"Wake up, Sweetie," she said again. Her face blurred, morphed. She ceased to be Sarah. She began to resemble Abby.

Chuck shook his head. His eyes fluttered again. He looked around. He was still strapped to a chair, in the Castle medical bay. Abby was kneeling beside him, caressing his cheek.

"Sssarah?" Chuck asked, not quite sure whom he was speaking to.

"No, not yet," Abby replied, as she kissed his cheek. "But soon, Sweetie. I actually need your help with something. But first. . ."

Abby pulled out a large paper bag, marked Subway.

"Sweet tea, and a tuna-salad hoagie. You're still groggy from the tranqs. You need your strength." She pulled the tea and sandwich from the bag, and offered them to Chuck. He took a long sip of the tea through a straw, and then took a tentative bite into the sandwich.

"Hoagie?" Chuck asked, confused.

"I'm a Philly-girl, remember? I forget what they call him out here. But it's from Subway." Abby stood up, and walked four feet to a stand-up computer terminal in the medical bay. She started studying something on the screen, but periodically looked back at Chuck.

"With fresh ingredients, mayo, and my choice of veggies?" Chuck asked excitedly, as he bit more adventurously into his sandwich.

"You know it. Only the best for you. Not a $5 footlong though. That promotion ended. But worthy every penny and more!" Abby replied, smiling.

"Thank you. . ." Chuck replied. Then he looked down at the ropes trying him to his chair. "Abby, why am I still tied up?"

"Because you might try to stop me," she answered. Her tone was direct, matter-of-fact.

"Casey, Ellie?" Chuck inquired.

"They are fine, don't worry. They are in the holding cells, sleeping it off. There's plenty of drinks, hoagies, and snacks for them, when they wake up." Abby answered, looking at the computer terminal. Then she turned back towards Chuck. "Now, after you've finished eating, about the help I need."

"Huh?" Chuck asked, stupefied.

Abby grasped his confusion, and explained. "I hacked into your files and found her. I found Sarah, the program. But I couldn't figure out how to download her into me. You set up the download to do that brain partition thing you were talking about. That's not what I want, obviously. I'm not looking for a roommate up here," Abby said, pointing to her scalp, "and I can't figure out how to restore the 'factory default' settings, if you know what I mean."

Chuck shook his head. "I won't help you. I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for me, for her."

Abby responded back, curtly but sympathetically. "I've already told you that I don't see it like that. Sure, it warms me thinking that I could help you, help your children. But, fundamentally, I'm doing this for me. To improve my life. To maximize my happiness. Remember what I said? It's still my soul. Just with a new set of clothes."

Chuck responded dismissively, combatively: "You're doing this because your life turned out shitty? Believe me, I get that. After Sarah died, I spent three years so depressed that I ceased _living_. I barely got out of bed except to zombie-myself over to the Buy More. But this . . . this isn't the solution. It's just giving up. It's like suicide."

Abby tossed her hair and emitted a small smile. "I'm not suicidal Chuck. Never have been. I want to live. I just want the pain, the emptiness, the boredom to stop. And I want to quell the threat of a CIA-sponsored 'pension plan,' with 'direct deposit' right into the back of my skull. Is this a shortcut to happiness? Maybe. But so what? It's my life. Besides, I've been taking shortcuts for years."

Chuck shot her a curious look.

"Self-medicating with booze, Chuck." Abby clarified.

"Oh."

"At least this shortcut won't destroy my liver, any worse than it already has been," Abby remarked.

Chuck shook his head again. "If you're doing this, you're doing this without my help. . . and it won't work. Even if you download Sarah, we'll take her right out."

Abby turned her head away from him, and back towards the computer terminal. She started clicking keys and moving the mouse. She replied, focused on the screen, her backside facing Chuck. "No, you won't. It's one thing to try to stop me." Abby paused her speech, and turned her head. She looked intently at Chuck, piercing his chocolate eyes, "But once I'm Sarah? You really think I believe that you'd kill your wife, Chuck? Right after getting her back? Not gonna happen."

Chuck nodded and looked down towards the floor, tacitly conceding her point. Begrudgingly, he took another sip of the tea, and another bite of the sandwich.

Abby turned back towards the computer terminal. "Besides, I've had a few hours to go through the research files. You and I both know this is a one-way trip. Graham, Zarnow, the original team that designed Sarah. They never had any intention of letting the original personality reemerge. What goes in, isn't coming out."

Chuck answered forcefully, almost angrily: "I still won't help you."

Abby left the terminal, and once again kneeled down next to Chuck. She put one hand on his check. "Chuck, I'm doing this – no matter what." Abby took her other hand and grasped Chuck's left hand. She placed it on the side of her waist. "But if you help me, you can at least ensure that this body stays safe," she guided his hand to the top of her forehead, "that this brain stay safe. You wouldn't want your wife to end up a cripple, would you?"

Chuck stared into her emerald eyes. So much promise. So much sadness. He thought for a moment about whether he could ever love those eyes, irrespective the occupant. Abby really was beautiful. And not just physically. Inside it all - the pain, the emptiness, the horrible things she had done on the job - Chuck sensed an inner softness, a tenderness, that he had just begun to appreciate. He cared for her. It wasn't love. It wasn't close to love, and it never would be. He knew that. Yet it wasn't exactly platonic either. It was more than wanting to care for a wounded puppy. Or, for that matter, more than being sexually attracted to a wounded puppy. Chuck shivered as his mind drew that analogy to its logical yet ridiculous conclusion. It was more than sympathy, more than pity. The feeling confused him. He couldn't quite quantify it, or use words to describe it. He could only _feel _it. And he knew that he could never look at Sarah behind those emerald eyes without feeling a bitter sadness at how his wife had acquired them.

Chuck quietly broke his hand free from Abby's embrace. "Well, if that's your position, I guess there's only one thing I can say."

"What is it, Chuck?" Abby inquired.

"Pineapple."

Abby backed-off two feet. She looked befuddled. "Pineapple? What the hell does that mean?"

Just then, she felt a dizziness, a weakness. In the background, she could hear the distinct sound of gas.

"Damn you, Chuck," Abby said, as she collapsed unconscious. About a half-second later, Chuck keeled over and passed out right next to her.

**January 20, 2023 8 a.m., Castle**

"Wake up." Casey yelled.

Abby stirred awake. She was tied to a chair, in Castle's conference room. The knots were loose. Just enough to keep her contained. Not enough to hurt her. Chuck, Casey, and Ellie were seated in chairs, forming a semi-circle around her.

"Wha, how?" Abby asked.

She heard a voice call from in back of her: "Hi, that was, um, me." She turned around. It was Morgan, standing up and sipping a cup of coffee.

Chuck explained. "We built, programmed, contingencies into Castle. This was one that we designed early on, before knew we could trust you. It not only activated the knock out gas, it alerted Morgan to come and rescue us. He tied you up, and untied the rest of us."

Abby looked at the floor, too embarrassed to face them. "I tied you up, tranqued you all. Then got tied up by the manager of an electronics store? Abigail Cooper, failed agent. Failure at everything. Hell, I'm even a failure at betraying my team."

"You didn't betray us," Chuck interjected, "you tried to help. In a rather unusual way."

Abby turner her head and scanned the room again, trying to read facial expressions. She couldn't get a read on Casey, Morgan, or Chuck. But Ellie looked agitated, pehaps even aghast.

Abby looked back at Chuck, and spoke: "So what happens now? Am I arrested? Institutionalized? Marked for, well, you know?" She brought her tied-up hands to her face, maneuvered her fingers to look like a gun, then cocked and fired her finger-gun, while her lips mimicked the sound of a gun firing.

Chuck spoke calmly. He pushed his chair over towards her, extended himself, and tenderly grasped her hands within his own. She looked up, and saw his soft brown eyes looking at her. He had a small smile on his face, as if he was trying to put her at ease.

"No, nothing like that," Chuck answered, "What happens now, depends on you."

"What do you mean?" Abby asked.

"We talked. We figured out . . . things" Chuck answered. At the mention of the word "we," Ellie shot him a stern look of disapproval. Abby caught Ellie's glare. Whatever Chuck was planning, Ellie clearly wasn't on-board.

"Alright," Chuck continued. He briefly looked at Ellie before refocusing his attention on Abby. "_I_ figured out things. A way to keep you safe. At least from our own government."

"How?" Abby asked.

"Marry me."

Abby laughed. It was laugh born of discomfort, not humor. An involuntary, instinctive reaction to Chuck's proposal. "Is that your idea of a joke, Chuck? It's not very funny."

Chuck grasped her hands tighter. He stared at her with a seriousness, a pleasant ferocity, that she had never seen before. "No. It's a real proposal."

Ellie glared again at Chuck. Metaphorical steam rose from her head, as she stood up, arms crossed, and paced the room. Abby captured it all. _'My god, he's really serious_,' she thought.

Chuck explained: "A cover marriage. Except, instead of fooling my friends and family, we'd be fooling the NSA and CIA."

"I don't understand." Abby stated.

Chuck looked at her again. "I'm an emotional weakling. Everyone knows it." Chuck stated, as Casey grunted approvingly. Chuck shot Casey a quick glance, then refocused his attention on Abby. He spoke again: "And whenever my emotions get out of whack, the Intersect doesn't function properly. So long as our bosses, our superiors, believe that we're in love, they will do everything in their power to keep you safe."

Casey interjected. "Chuck's saying that he's too important for the CIA and NSA to risk him wasting away for three more years grieving over another dead wife."

"Thanks for putting it so eloquently, Casey." Chuck quipped.

"But what about Sarah, the download?" Abby inquired.

"I'm still doing it." Chuck answered. "Sarah will understand. She's not the jealous type."

Casey snorted, trying to stifle a laugh.

Chuck nodded, acknowledging his point. "Ok fine, she got jealous at times. But Sarah will understand. She's always understood my need to help people."

"But what about missions?" Abby queried.

"You'd be off them. Beckman's original plan would stick – you'd stay here, continuing to protect me. But you'd be safe. Just as the Government wouldn't kill you, it also wouldn't risk you getting killed in action."

"You'd do this, for me?" Abby asked.

"You just tried to download the consciousness of my dead wife. I think you've one-upped me on big gestures." Chuck responded, smiling at her. She returned the smile. "Besides, I was in a cover relationship for years – lying to everyone I cared about. I think I can handle a cover marriage, lying only to a couple of jerk-squad generals."

Abby's smile grew a little bit. Chuck returned the smile, and continued:

"More than that, you've given me a gift, Abby. You might not have intended to, but you did. I've spent the last four years thinking that I needed Sarah, that I couldn't function, couldn't _be _anything without her. This experience. . . you . . . you taught me that I'm stronger than that. That, no matter how much I miss her, some things . . . _some people _. . . are equally priceless. You're precious, Abby. So precious that I'm not willing to pay the price of losing you from this world, just to get my wife back."

"But he download?" Abby asked.

"I said I didn't need her. I didn't say I don't want her. I still do. . . to fill that same emptiness that you have. Just as importantly, she needs me. She's sentient, she's alive. And she needs a host to starve off insanity. I owe it to her, to our children . . . and to me, to do this. But I still want to marry you . . . to protect you . . . and to keep you in my life."

Abby reached out, and kissed him briefly on the lips. She lingered there for two seconds, then withdrew. "You can marry me Chuck," she stated, "but I can't return the favor. I can't marry you." As she spoke, Ellie emitted a gasp of relief.

"Why?" Chuck asked.

"For so many reasons. On a personal level, I couldn't be that close to you, everyday, and not be with you. Do you understand?"

"I do," Chuck responded, thinking back to the days of his cover relationship with Sarah – to when he refused the opportunity to live with her.

Abby continued. "But that's not the only reason. Sarah might have been willing to give up this life to play Susie Homemaker. But I'm not her. And now," she turned towards the computer terminal, towards _Sarah_, and glanced despondently, "I won't ever be."

"Now, I don't understand." Chuck replied.

Abby explained: "I can't stay here, and stand around everyday watching you fix computers, then go home to make dinner, wash laundry, and mow the lawn. Between missions, I've been suffocating here. I've been going out of my mind with boredom. I quit being a therapist to get away from a stifling life. I can't play the part of a Nerd Herder from 9-5, and a dutiful wife from 5-9. That's . . . not me. It never will be."

Abby paused for a moment, then spoke again, "You know I'm not an alcoholic, right?"

"I didn't make any assumptions." Chuck answered.

"I'm a drunk, Chuck. Not an alcoholic. There's a difference. Give me a mission, give me something _important_ to do, and I don't touch the stuff. I can go weeks without a drop, or just have a glass of wine for cover if the objective calls for it. . . . The downtime . . . when I'm alone with my misery. . . It's something to do. Stops the pain. Dulls things, you know? I don't want to keep dulling things, I want to _live_. But, even without my . . . feelings for you, which only make things worse, if I'm trapped here. . . I'll self-destruct."

Chuck nodded his head. He hadn't put his finger on it that precisely, but he knew that Abby got itchy between meetings. Nothing she said surprised him. "There's another option," he said.

"What?" Abby asked.

"You run. We're just an analyst team now. Our next check-in with Beckman isn't for five days. You can postdate your resignation letter, leave it here with me, and be halfway around the world before anyone goes looking for you."

"You'd do that. . . for me?"

Chuck smiled, and grasped her hands again. "Abby, I just asked you to marry me. Delivering a letter is pretty small potatoes compared to that, don't you think?"

"Thank you, Chuck," she answered. Then she withdrew her hands and, very quickly, made short work of the knots tying her to the chair, to the amazement of Chuck, Casey, Ellie, and Morgan.

"Abby, how?" Morgan asked, confused.

"Spy, remember? Besides, you need to learn how to tie people up better."

Abby turned towards Chuck, "Now, do you have a pen?"

"Now? So suddenly?" Chuck asked, saddened a bit.

"You said I had five days, remember? Then what happens? Beckman puts a termination order out?"

Chuck didn't answer, he just stared at her, recognizing the odds were pretty high.

"Not a whole lot of time to waste, Chuck."

**35 Minutes Later**

Abby handed a piece of paper to Chuck. It was postdated January 25, 2023. Three brief paragraphs, followed by a signature. "Here. It's done," she stated.

"I'll miss you," Chuck responded.

"I know. But not as badly as I'll miss you."

Chuck looked at her inquisitively. "Abby, where will you go?"

Abby looked up at the ceiling, then scanned Castle. Eventually, her eyes settled down on an electronic global map. "I don't know exactly," she stated. Then, focusing her attention on one portion of the map, she added "but I think I'll visit some old friends."

Chuck smiled.

"Well. The clock is ticking. See ya around, Chuck." Abby spoke casually, if regretfully. She turned around, and began walking towards Castle's steps. After taking four steps, she stopped, turned around, and faced Chuck.

"Oh, to hell with it," she called out. She ran up to Chuck, grabbed him in her arms, dipped him, and kissed him passionately – almost mimicking, if reversing the gender of the famous V-J Day photograph of the sailor and woman kissing in Times Square.

She finished the kiss. Licking her lips, she said seductively, "Bye, Chuck." Then she ran up Castle's stairs. Reaching the top of the stairs, by the door, she turned around, blew a kiss to Chuck, winked, and exited.

As the door closed, Casey turned to Chuck. "I saw your reaction." Casey commented.

"What, to the kiss? I didn't think you cared." Chuck replied.

"Not the kiss, numnuts. It was gross, but no worse than a so-called Republican President trashing the service record of a great and patriotic American like John McCain."

"Still bitter about that?" Chuck asked.

Casey grunted. "Forced me to vote third-party. But I meant your reaction to her quip about visiting friends. You know where she's going, don't you?"

Chuck nodded, but didn't respond verbally.

"Well?" Casey asked.

Chuck grew a smile. "She's getting a new start. Or, more accurately, a very old one."

**January 25, 2023 2 p.m., Castle**

General Beckman's face glared from Castle's central screen. "So I'm to believe that Agent Cooper, out-of-nowhere, tendered her resignation and disappeared two hours ago?"

"Yes, General." Chuck answered.

"And neither you nor Colonel Casey have any idea where she went?"

"No, Ma'am." Chuck responded.

"I affirm that I do not know where she is," Casey added.

General Beckman parsed Casey's words carefully. '_'I do not know_.' _But Chuck knows,'_ she thought.

"And I suppose that, if I carefully review Castle's surveillance for the past few days, I won't notice any mysterious gaps of deleted data?" Beckman queried.

Chuck noticed a small grin creep across the General's face. He returned the grin. "It was a terrible coincidence, General. A remnant of the Elias worm got loose. We we're able to retain it. But we had to delete the infected data. Several hours of surveillance footage got lost."

"I'm sure." General Beckman replied. The General paused for three seconds, then spoke again: "Chuck, she's unstable. Are you sure you can trust her?"

Chuck answered confidently. "General, she wasn't the best agent. We all know it. But she'll never betray us. I'd bet my life on it."

General Beckman's glare intensified. "Chuck, you are, in fact, betting your life on it. Are you sure?"

"Yes, General. In any event, wherever she went . . .," Chuck noticed the General glaring at him, "I'm sure it's someplace where no one gives a darn about us."

"Alright. Here's what I'll do," General Beckman paused again, as if she didn't know quite what to say, or how to phrase it. "She's dangerous. With what she knows about you, about the Intersect, about D-Day. I can't ignore that. I'm placing a termination order out on her."

"But General –" Chuck protested, only to have the General cut him off.

"However, in light of certain representations that you've made," the General looked Chuck directly in the eyes, "I will not assign anyone to carry out the order. It will be a low priority, unassigned order. So long as she stays off the grid, and don't interject herself into anything that concerns us, I'd be surprised if the order catches up with her. It will sit and collect dust, unnoticed."

"Like the Ark of the Covenant?" Chuck asked. General Beckman gave him a small smile, and disconnected the monitor. _'Over fifteen years, and that genius can still be an idiot – albeit, a completely loveable one_,_' _she thought.

**January 28, 2023 ****Recruiting Substation, Kurdish Democratic Forces, Undisclosed location, Quandil Mountains, Iraqi Kurdistan – near the border with Iran**

Navdar Ocalan sat at his desk, in a dusty one-room office. He sipped lukewarm coffee as he scratched his mustache. He looked over the file before him, and then up at the prospective recruit standing in front of him. A small fan on his desk blew air in his face.

"Name," he asked, in English.

The recruit looked at him. "Abigael Coop. . .," the green-eyed former agent started to say, before stopping herself. Ocalan looked up at her, a little confused, and the recruit clarified her answer. To his surprise, she answered him in fluent, native Sorani. "Screw it. My name. My birth name was Bejne Qarachatani."

"And it says here that you were an American agent?"

"Yes" Bejne replied.

"What happened?"

"It's a long story. But to make it short, they fed me empty promises. Used me as basically their whore for years. Seduction, they called it. I got a better assignment for a little while. But when I became inconvenient, they turned on me. Word has it that there's a kill order on me if I ever return home."

Ocalan laughed. He answered her in Sorani. "You're one of us, right? I didn't realize it from your file, but your fluency, your accent . . . it's native, isn't it?"

Bejne nodded.

Ocalan studied her carefully, then continued to speak. "Americans. I'm not surprised. You can never trust them. Betrayal is their national sport. What do we always say? We have no friends but the mountains."

Bejne paused. She thought about the chocolate eyed, curly haired man she loved. "I had a friend once. A true friend," she answered.

"What happened?" Ocalan inquired.

"It didn't work out. I kinda fucked things up."

Ocalan looked off to the side, a bit dismissively, then focused back on his prospective recruit, "Well, none of that matters here. Tell me, why do you want to join our intelligence corps?"

Bejne examined the room. She noticed a Latin grammar book on the small bookshelf behind the recruiter. "You study Latin?," she asked.

Ocalan smiled at her. He grabbed a cigar from his desk and lit it. "Yes. Weird hobby, I know. Klingon is probably more useful. But we're all entitled to weird hobbies, aren't we? Besides, we can learn a lot from the Romans."

Bejne smiled back at him. "You know the old saying,_ dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_?"

Ocalan nodded his head. He recognized the quote. "Horace. It is good and sweet to die for your country," he answered.

Bejne looked back at him, curtly but seriously. She spoke. "You know, as a Roman, Horace didn't realize something."

"What?" the gruff recruiter responded.

Bejne answered: "It is good and sweet to die for your country. But it is better to have a country to die for. I don't have a country anymore. Not since my country, the United States, spit me out, ordered me killed. I'd like to change that."

Ocalan looked up at her confused. "What would you like to change?"

Bejne responded back sharply, emitting a small grin. "Not having a country. The termination order, that I can deal with."

Ocalan puffed on his cigar, took another sip of coffee, and quipped back, "you know we don't have a country either."

"I know. I'd like to change that too. Most of family died, senselessly, to try to make that happen."

"And?"

Bejne's smile grew as she answered him. "I'd like to try to make their deaths not so senseless," she responded.

Ocalan turned his head and blew smoke, away from both Bejne and the fan. "You know, you could start by passing along some of that wonderful American intelligence that you had access to."

Bejne shook her head. In her inner monologue, she was halfway to just walking out and leaving. She decided against that strategy. Instead, she replied sharply, directly: "No. I'll give you mind, my gun, my services, my life. But I won't betray those that I left behind – even the ones who kicked me out, ordered me killed."

Ocalan laughed heartily again. "Good. If you had answered any differently, I could never have trusted you. I probably would have interrogated you, then had you shot. Anyone who would betray their employer . . . would betray us, sooner or later. But we can put such ugly thoughts behind us . . . Now, why don't we celebrate your recruitment? Would you prefer whiskey, or arak?"

Bejne shot him a quizzical look. "You drink?," she asked.

"Eh, what is it they say about us? Compared to a Kurd, a _kafir _is a good Muslim?" he answered, chuckling.

"I don't think they say that." Bejne responded.

"Whatever. . . would you like that drink anyway?" Ocalan asked.

Bejne thought about it for a moment, then her face brightened. "Actually, I'd prefer to get to work. But a cup of that coffee you're drinking sounds lovely."

* * *

**A/N: So I had only promised one more chapter. I guess I'm breaking that promise. This just seems like a good thematic place for a chapter break. There will be one more "wrap up" chapter to go, followed by an epilogue. I may also add something post-epilogue (such as an alternative ending where Abby succeeds in downloading Sarah). The good news is that the rest of the story is basically written, so it shouldn't be too much of a wait to get the last chapters out. **

**Thanks to everyone who has stuck through with this (a special thanks to Joe Watkins for his kind words in the last review). **

**After this story concludes, I have one more idea for a story. It would be a new version of Season 3 - not a re-write, but sort of spinning off the story in a very different direction. Unlike this story, a FanFiction version of season 3 been done repeatedly. The one new twist I'd try to add is to portray the Ring not as cartoon villains, but as complicated, morally ambiguous (and arguably sympathetic) adversaries. Additionally, much like this story, there would also be a few huge twists. I've got a very basic outline for the story in my head. But, frankly, I'd need a lot of help to write it. I know how to go from A-Z, but don't have the plot to fill the middle. . . and to get to "Z" there needs to be a big chunk of middle plot. If anyone would like to help me, send me a PM. **

**Finally, if someone would post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook page, I'd appreciate it.**


	29. Chuck vs The Kobayashi Maru

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

_Previously in Chuck: The Echo of Memory_

_Chapter 9:_

_Chuck: "Paraphrasing Star Trek V, seriously?" _

_Morgan: "Most underrated of the original cast films. It's the only one that really captured the Holy Trinity of Kirk, Spock, and McCoy," Morgan answered, making the sign of the cross for emphasis._

_Chuck: "Does that make you Kirk, and me Spock? Because I'm far too emotional to be Spock." Chuck responding, laughing._

_Morgan: "No, you're Kirk. I'm more like a less cranky, less antsy McCoy. But seriously, getting kidnapped and everything, it was the most __alive __you've been in years. And pulling that financial crap out of your rear to save our hides, that's the Kirk I remember. The __Kobayashi Maru__ Kirk. The 'I don't like to lose," Kirk._

* * *

**January 20, 2023, Castle**

Abby finished the kiss. Licking her lips, she said seductively, "Bye, Chuck." Then she ran up Castle's stairs. Reaching the top of the stairs, by the door, she turned around, blew a kiss to Chuck, winked at him, and exited.

**_One Minute Later _**

"Time to talk Chuck," Ellie stated, matter-of-factly.

"I know." Chuck answered. He conveyed calmness, certitude.

Ellie approached, took her hands, and tenderly planted one each of his cheeks. She stared pensively into his eyes. "I asked you this before, but I need to know. Is this what you really want?"

"It is."

She grabbed her brother and pulled him into a bear hug, whispering into his ear: "Then I'll help you."

"Ellie, I don't need your help," Chuck replied mid-hug.

Ellie kissed his forehead, and withdrew from the hug. "For such a genius, you're a complete idiot sometimes. Sure, you've got the Intersect in your head. Do you know what I have in mine? Seventeen years of neurology experience. You really don't think you could use a second pair of eyes to look at, well, whatever it is you're doing?"

Chuck looked down at his shoes, nonverbally conceding the point. He peaked his eyes up to look at her. Her face spoke legions. "Ellie, one question. I know you disapprove of the choice I'm making. Why are you offering to help me?"

Ellie shook her head, then took her right palm and lightly, playfully, smacked her brother's forehead. "My god you're not only an idiot, little brother. You're also clueless. It's because I love you, silly. Sure, I wish you'd put this whole idea aside, find a nice _living_ girl, get married again. . . . Have a normal life. Screw it. You'll never have a normal life. But, I want your _extraordinary _life to be as normal as possible, for your sake."

She pulled back, and observed Chuck again. He appeared dejected, sad, burdened by the knowledge that his choice disappointed her. That wasn't her intention. "But, Chuck . . . at a certain point, what I want . . . it doesn't matter. It's your life. If this is what you think will make you happy, then it's not my role to judge, or to criticize. It's my job to support you. If you're going to do this, I'm going to make sure you stay as safe as possible. That's why I'm going to help you . . . to make sure nothing goes wrong."

He got up from his chair, kissed his sister's forehead, and hugged her lightly.

"Nothing's going to go wrong, sis," he responded.

* * *

**February 15, 2023**

Chuck felt airy, light. He could quite place the feeling. It was like he was transparent – without substance or matter. He felt himself float, then soar. Viewing down below, he saw the receding outlines of the Fielding Financial cover office, the above-ground location which concealed Castle. As Chuck floated higher, the Fielding Financial office disappeared. Soon, all of Los Angeles stood before his eyes. The cars hurried about like little brown ants in the mid-afternoon sky.

He ceased rising, and scanned around. Clouds dominated his view. But not natural clouds. They contained an eerily, comforting light. He couldn't quite place the color. It was like a cross between golden yellow and dark purple. It resembled nothing terrestrial. Nothing like Earth.

"Mr. Bartowski," an middle-aged woman's voice called. He turned around and saw a short, pale woman wearing a bonnet around her hair.

"Yes," Chuck responded, confused.

"As I gather you've realized by now, the little digital surgery you and your sister dreamed up had an unfortunate side effect. A massive brain hemorrhage. You're dead. I'm the Keeper at the Gate." Her tone was business-like, without emotion. For some reason, Chuck thought of the woman who worked the service counter at Pep Boys, when she last tried to sell him an upgraded air filter.

"I don't believe in, well, this." Chuck answered.

"Well. You were wrong. You were wrong about a lot of things," the woman lectured.

"You don't look like St. Peter," Chuck replied, disbelievingly.

"No, I'm not. In life I was known as Mother Ann Lee, the founder of the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing. You probably know us as the Shakers. Turns out we were the one true and correct faith all along. So I have the privilege of maintaining the keys to the Kingdom. But don't worry. Many of you damn, filthy breeders, sexual deviants, and heretics still have a place here. It is our actions towards our fellow human beings that tip the scales. Does not the Judge of all the Earth judge justly?"

Chuck looked at her befuddled, but not fearful. Nor, and this surprised him, not regretful or mournful of what he left behind.

Mother Ann extended her arm, and invited Chuck to join her. "Come, there's someone who wants to see you," she said, guiding him.

She escorted Chuck across the clouds, to a free-standing door. Free-standing in the sense that it was not connected to a house or other building. It was simply a door, surrounded by air on all sides. Chuck walked around it, trying to understand the metaphysics. He heard sounds originating from within. They were familiar, but muffled.

"Open it," instructed Mother Ann.

Chuck followed Mother Ann's direction. He opened the door just a crack. Quickly, he found himself sucked through it. He emerged in a bedroom, or what resembled a bedroom. The furniture, the rug, décor, were all a bright glowing white. Chuck blinked his eyes, as he tried to adjust to the light. It was then that he heard the moaning sounds. He turned his head. As his vision slowly came into focus, he saw a couple, mid-passion. A brown-haired, muscular man was on top. He couldn't see the man's partner.

"Um," Chuck said involuntarily – startled at the scene. "Oh shit," the brown-haired, muscular man exclaimed. He rolled off his partner, giving Chuck a view.

"Chuck!" Sarah screamed, mixing surprise, terror, and shame.

"Bryce? Sarah? What the hell?," Chuck exclaimed.

Bryce Larkin pulled up his briefs, and threw on a t-shirt from the nightstand beside the bed.

"Heaven, Chuck. Up here, the phrase is 'What the heaven?'" Bryce explained.

Sarah started to speak, but Bryce quieted here. "Sarah – give us a moment alone," he ordered. Sarah obliged. She scuttled off the bed and ran to the bathroom, or at least something that resembled a bathroom. She closed the door behind her, sobbing.

"You? Sarah?" Chuck asked.

Bryce smiled coyly. "Hey, Chuckie boy. You didn't think she would wait for you to die, did you? Not when she could experience the Second Coming of Bryce, every day."

"Um, I guess I never thought about it." Chuck answered. "If anything, I assumed non-existence."

Bryce turned his head to the bathroom door. He could see Sarah peaking her eyes out of it, spying on them. "Tell me, Chuck. How long have I been up here? We don't exactly have clocks here. It's easy to lose track of time."

"It's been about fourteen years," Chuck said.

"Well, Chuck. Once you get settled, I'll be happy to show you around. What are friends for? I mean, wouldn't you like to meet the Virgin Mary?" Bryce asked.

"Um, I guess, sure."

"Then it's too bad. . . you're about fourteen years too late." Bryce flashed a devilish smile, then gave himself two thumbs up.

"You didn't." Chuck stated.

Bryce grinned, merrily. "I did. What can I say? I'm awesome. Don't you want to know how she was?"

Chuck peaked at Sarah, peaking at them, then turned back towards Bryce. "Not really, but you're going to tell me anyway. Aren't you?" Chuck replied, grumpily.

"Immaculate, Chuck. Immaculate. Particularly in the missionary position. Not only that, Chuck, all those paintings of her . . . they don't do her justice. She's a total MILF. And MILFs always had a thing for me. Why do think Sarah flapped her wings so fast across the clouds to fly back to me?"

"Bryce, can I speak to him now?" Sarah asked, emerging from the bathroom in a luxurious white robe.

"Sure, go ahead babe. Besides, I'm hitting the Sizzler with Nixon in twenty minutes." Bryce replied.

"Nixon?" Chuck asked, inquisitively.

"Yeah. It turns out the guy wasn't a crook after all. You know about those missing 18 minutes of tape?"

Chuck just looked at Bryce, perplexed. It was a lot to take in.

Bryce continued speaking: "Turns out they were talking about rescuing high-level American assets from the Soviets. The guy resigned rather than risk spilling details about a sensitive operation. No wonder he's one of El Queso Grande's favorites about up here."

"Huh." Chuck uttered.

"Anyway, got to go." Bryce stated as he faded away, seemingly into nothingness.

Chuck turned and looked at Sarah. She shimmered, angelically, in her white robe.

"Hi Chuck."

"So . . . you and Bryce?" Chuck inquired, speaking with the sound of broken heart.

"About that. Chuck, you know you're not dead, right?," she asked.

"Huh?"

"You're dreaming. This whole setup. This is all coming from your fears, your insecurities. Specifically, that little voice in your head that never quite believed that you were good enough for me, that I _chose _you. You quieted that voice. You beat it into submission. Intellectually, you knew it was wrong. But it never entirely went away. No matter how much I tried to reassure you. No matter how much I loved you."

Sarah grew closer. She reached up and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss, neither playful nor passionate. Wistful.

"I'm not with Bryce, Chuck. I'm not in Heaven. I'm not . . . well, I'm probably not anywhere. At least not the original me. But there are echoes of me everywhere . . . in our children, in our deeds and actions, in our memories, and . . . in her."

Her words crystalized in Chuck's mind, bringing on both relief and sadness. Relief that he would soon wake-up, kiss his children, and take on a new day. But sadness the recognition that whatever was before him wasn't really her. It was just a figment, an echo, of his memories of her. He felt a warm tear drift down his cheek. He reached out, brushed her fingertips with his, then grasped her hand.

"You know. . . I never said goodbye to you. Even when the doctors said that you only had hours to live." You were in a coma. You had been for days. The doctor, he told me to go in and say goodbye. But . . . I just couldn't do it. So I sat there, next to you. I held your hand for hours, like this," Chuck gave her hand a squeeze, "but I didn't say a word. I was too broken, too scared." Chuck paused for a moment. He scanned his surroundings once again, then focused on the dreamy spirit before him.

Chuck pondered: "Death. The ultimate Kobiyashu Maru. The no-win scenario. And I faced it like a whimpering coward."

Sarah spoke again. "Chuck. Sometimes the universe gives you a second chance. It's time to take yours. To live yours." Her voice sounded dim, and faded more with each word. Her last words were barely audible. That's when Chuck heard the alarm.

* * *

**Casa Bartowksi-Woodcomb, February 15, 2023, 7:30 a.m.**

_Bzzzzzzz_

The alarm sounded. Chuck took a minute to reassess his surroundings. He was alive, home, in his bed. Ellie was sitting on a chair, staring at him.

"Wake up, sleepyhead. You know what today is?" she asked.

Chuck smiled. "Yeah. I guess you could say it's my wedding day, right?"

"I guess you could call it that. Two souls, one flesh?" she answered.

"Yes, but not until tonight. In the meantime, there's still today." Chuck rolled out of bed. He quickly threw on a pair of sweatpants and went down the hall to peak in on Stephen. Stephen was already up, reviewing math problems.

"Everything ok, buddy?" Chuck asked.

"Yeah, just last-minute studying." Stephen replied.

"Anything I can help you with?"

"Nah, I got this down cold. But could you teach me more coding tonight, after school?" Stephen asked, warmly.

"Sorry buddy. . . not tonight."

"Oh," Stephen emitted, somewhat dejectedly.

Chuck saw his son's expression. He couldn't quite tell him the truth. But he also couldn't let Stephen's disappointment linger. "I've got something to do for my _other _job." Chuck explained.

"Really?" Stephen perked up. "Are you taking down more bad guys?," he inquired excitedly.

"Let's just say that it's . . . computer related." Chuck shot his son a sly glance. His son's beaming, contented smile told him that his ruse worked. "But do you want to know a secret?" Chuck asked.

"What?" Stephen responded.

"I think I'll be free all weekend . . . and I'd love to work with you on coding then. Ever hear of a game called Zork?"

"No, what is it?" Stephen asked.

"It's a game I used to play. I guess you could say that it's what first brought me and your mother together . . . How about I teach you how to build your own version?"

Stephen buzzed with excitement. "That sounds great dad!"

Chuck gave him a little hug, then left the room and went to the room next door.

"Diana? You ready for school?," he called out from behind the closed door.

"No!" his daughter shouted.

"Why? What's wrong?" Chuck asked, peaking his head in.

"I need someone to help me brush my hair."

Chuck looked at his daughter, at her azure eyes and golden locks. She looked so much like a little Sarah. The thought that she continued to live on through her warmed his heart. He smiled.

"I think I can help with that," he said.

* * *

**Casa de Grimes, Burbank, California, February 15, 2023 7:30 a.m.**

Alex Grimes waited impatiently, staring at the plastic strip before her. Each passing minute felt like hours. During her first marriage, she had gone through this ritual five or six times - really whenever a few days delay of her monthly visitor brought her false hope. The ritual always ended with the same result. A minus sign. Not pregnant. Better luck next month.

She looked down again. It appeared faintly at first, then darkened into a wonderful blue. A plus sign. Pregnant. Alex placed her hand on her slim belly. She smiled.

**Undisclosed Compound, the Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina, February 15, 2023 7:30 a.m.**

Jeffrey Barnes stood on his balcony, clothed in a thick bathroom robe. It was a brisk mid-February morning. The temperature hovered at 33 degrees. A one-inch dusting of snow blanketed everything he could see. It had fallen overnight, and would probably melt by mid-day. But, now, it sparkled with the early morning sun. Jeff had seen snow before. In Germany, when he was touring with Jeffster. But never quite like this. A burst of wind hit him, and Jeff shivered. He retreated inside his compound, and closed the balcony door. He looked out the window. It really was beautiful. But it wasn't home. He missed Los Angeles. He missed aspects of his old life. He probably always would.

Sure, he had fame. More than he possibly could have imagined. He had met the President, received the Medal of Honor, had his face plastered on all the news stations.

And he had money. Far more than he knew what to do with. Far more than he could ever spend. The Government treated him as a whistleblower under the False Claims Act and similar statutes, entitling him to a portion of the money recovered through his program. Based on the amount seized to date, it's likely that his share would approach something like $90 billion. He was so rich, he would even soon have his own money, in the _Coming to America_ sense. Well, sort of. A private mint had contacted him about licensing his likeliness for gold collector's coins.

All the money in the world, Jeff thought, and no way to enjoy it. The compound was CIA funded – 4032 square feet, six bedrooms, an indoor, heated swimming pool and sauna, a tennis court, and all the technological creature comforts he ever dreamed of. What more did he need? More to the point, consistent with his immense security needs, where could he go? Travel was out of the question, except for depositions and court cases. Too great a risk. His need to stay off-the-grid also precluded him from wasting money on fast cars, yachts, and similar toys. Nice food? Eh. He was always more of a pizza and hamburgers guy anyway. Fancy scotch? No, best to stay away from drinking. Besides, if he was going to drink again, he preferred beer and cheap whiskey.

Jeff even had access to women banging down the door once again. Groupies, effectively. Or he would, soon enough. Potential dates needed to go through an extensive background check just to meet him. His Secret Service detail had informed him that the process was expected to take six to eight weeks. Then they needed to agree to be blindfolded and escorted by the Secret Service for the rendezvous. He expected to meet the first successful applicant next week.

Aside from the groupies, he also had constant companionship. Or, at least he did, if the troupe of six Secret Service agents stationed at the compound qualified.

Jeff looked out again at the snow-capped mountains. He realized that he had everything he ever wanted, ever dreamed of. Everything except freedom. It wasn't that this new life was bad. Far from it. But large portions of him hoped that, one day, the world would forget about Jeffrey Barnes, the Greatest Living American. Maybe then, he could actually enjoy all of his dreams coming true. Until then, he'd be content to sip his morning coffee, catch a whiff of the brisk mountain air, and take in the glorious beauty of creation.

* * *

**Casa Bartowksi-Woodcomb, February 15, 2023, 6:30 p.m.**

Chuck peered over his computer, analyzing lines of code.

Ellie called out. "Chuck, it's time to go. Emma's already here to watch the kids."

"Just going over the coding one last time. I had a weird dream last night. I want to make sure everything's perfect."

Ellie entered his room, approached him from behind, and wrapped her arms around him. "It's perfect, Chuck. At least the neurology parts. This will work, I promise."

Just then, Chuck and Ellie heard a chime from the computer – signaling receipt of a new email.

"I should probably get that. . . work and everything." Chuck said.

Ellie nodded, as Chuck clicked to open his secure NSA email.

The email's subject line said "Just reverse the genders." It attached a file.

Chuck looked at the sender. "It's from Abby. It looks like she sent me something."

Ellie cast of a skeptical look. "Chuck, are you sure you should open it? Can you trust her, really? She tranqed us and ran off. Who knows where she is, or who she's with? For all you know, this file could be something nefarious."

Chuck shook her off. "She won't betray me. I trust her, Ellie. I worry about her, but I trust her."

Chuck clicked on the file. The words "Your Nose" flashed on the screen. Chuck laughed.

"Your nose? I don't get it." Ellie commented.

"It's a code. Something I told her on our first date. I was trying to be romantic. It's a phrase that only I'd know. . . so that only I could open the file."

Ellie's skepticism grew. "Chuck, you remember what happened the last time an old friend sent you a coded email?"

"Ellie, again, I trust her."

Chuck grinned, the tip of his tongue pointing out from his lip. After the words, "Your nose" he typed the following response:

'_Is like a tower of Lebanon, overlooking Damascus.'_

Ellie gawked at her brother. "That's your idea of romantic? What did you say next, 'your neck has the odor of a monkey's fart'?"

Chuck laughed. "It wasn't my best moment."

The computer buzzed. Chuck and Ellie shot each other a perplexed look. Until a familiar melody started playing. It was _Opus 17_, by the Four Seasons. "An oldie, but a goodie," Chuck thought to himself. More importantly, as the words started playing, he got Abby's message.

_I can see there ain't no room for me_

_You're only holding out your heart in sympathy_

_If there's another man, then girl I understand_

_Go on and take his hand and don't you worry 'bout me._

"Chuck, what is it?" Ellie asked, turning towards her brother, who looked mired deep in thought.

"Huh. _'Just reverse the genders.'_ She's sending me a message."

"Which is?"

"That she's ok. Now, it's time to go."

"Ok, then. We'll do the download in Castle's medical bay."

* * *

**Castle, February 15, 2023, 7:05 p.m.**

Ellie, Morgan, Casey, and Devon assembled in a semi-circle around Chuck, who sat leaning back in a medical bay bed. A laptop was before him.

"So all I do is put on the shades and press enter?" Chuck asked.

"You wrote the download program." Ellie responded.

"Yes, but you spent the last few weeks reviewing it. . . for my safety. I know this wasn't the choice you wanted for me," Chuck said, "but thank you for letting me make it."

Ellie nodded to him responsively.

Morgan jumped in. "Chuck. . . one question. Are you really sure about this? You told Abby you knew you didn't need Sarah, you just _wanted_ her. Are you really sure this is what _you_ want?"

Chuck paused for a moment. Deep in thought, he let his eyes press down towards his shoes again. Then they darted across the room, briefly capturing images of Ellie and Casey, before resting again on Morgan's face.

"Have any of you ever heard of the legend of the Oven of Akhnai?" Chuck answered, responding to her question with a question.

"Is that like a Sith legend? You know, like. . . Darth Plagueis was a Dark Lord of the Sith, so powerful and so wise, he could use the Force." Morgan queried.

Chuck shook his head lightly, then explained. "Not quite, buddy. I didn't think any of you would know of it. It's a Talmudic legend. Not something I knew before, well, you know. . . you guys conspired with Beckman to zap a thousand libraries full of religious and cultural crap into my head."

"You looking for an apology? Not getting one." Casey quipped.

Chuck shook his head again. "No. I'm fine with it. Anyway, as the legend goes, a group of Rabbis was sitting around a study hall, arguing about whether particular kind of oven was ritually pure or impure."

"Why would an oven be impure?" Ellie asked, leaving unstated her real inquiry, _'where the hell are you going with this, little brother?'_

"It's not important. If anything, the only importance is its non-importance, it's utter irrelevance," Chuck answered.

"Numnuts is saying it was a stupid argument," Casey noted, "surprised you and Morgan weren't involved."

Casey and Morgan exchanged glances. Chuck nodded, then continued to explain. "Regardless, so the legend goes, all the Rabbis rule one way, except for Rabbi Eliezer. Unable to convince his colleagues, he starts performing miracles to prove his point – getting a carob tree to pull up its roots and move 100 cubits – that kind of thing. Nothing he does convinces anyone. Eventually, he gets so frustrated that he cries out 'If I'm right, may Heaven itself prove it.' And, sure enough, God calls down with a booming, heavenly voice, saying 'Rabbi Eliezer is right.'"

Morgan jumped in. "So this is like any of those Bible stories I got in Catholic Sunday school, where they listed to God and get rewarded, right?"

Chuck laughed a bit. "No. Quite the opposite. Basically, the Rabbis tell God to shut up and get lost."

"So it's one of those stories where God gets angry and smites everyone one?"

"No. God smiles, he laughs, he dances. . . depending on how the story is told. The details vary a bit. The point is, he's happy."

Morgan looked confused, perplexed. "I don't get it. . . and what's this got to do with, you know, Sarah?"

"Basically, the Rabbis explained that . . . even if God created all of existence, etc. . . the law is not in heaven anymore. It's humans who live in this world. We're the ones who make the decisions. God no longer gets a vote."

Chuck looked at the trio before him, all of whom appeared befuddled, and explained further. "Now, what I take from the story is different from its original intent, but here's the gist. . . Maybe there's a heaven. Maybe Sarah's in it. Maybe . . . probably . . . there's not. But, right now, we've got to live our lives. . . make our decisions for ourselves. I know this whole setup, this download, it's weird. It's unconventional. It's not the choice any of you would make . . . But in here," Chuck pointed to his heart, "and in here," Chuck pointed to his brain, "I know it's the right one. She's the only person who's ever completed me. And a big part of her is right here," pointing to the Intersect goggles before him. "Even if she didn't need me, and she does, if all that exists is the here and now, I want to spend that time with her. Talking with her. Laughing with her. Just like we used to. Just like we were always supposed to. And no one else gets a vote."

"Wait." Morgan piped in.

"What is it buddy?" Chuck asked.

"A thought just occurred to me."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Casey quipped.

Morgan ignored him, and continued: "Sarah's gone. But you found a way to bring her back, to get her back in your life anyway. You did it."

"I did what?" Chuck asked.

"Death. The ultimate Kobayashi Maru. You found a way to beat it. To cheat it. Didn't you?

Chuck looked up at his old friend. As Chuck put on a pair of Intersect sunglasses, he grinned merrily: "What can I say? I don't like to lose."

With that, Chuck pressed enter. Millions of images flashed in the sunglasses, entering his brain. He passed out.

**_Four Hours Later_**

Chuck blinked his eyes awake. Groggily, he scanned the room. Ellie, Devon, Morgan, and Casey were all sitting on chairs around him. Then he felt something. A warmth on his hand. A genuine softness, tenderness. He looked up. He saw her. He felt her. Grasping his hand. Caressing it. He blond hair with streaks of silver-gray, tussling by her shoulders. Her sparkling blue eyes. Sarah.

"Hi Chuck." She answered.

It worked. Not only was she in him, part of him, their consciousnesses were interacting. Just as he predicted. Just as he hoped. Just as Elliemade sure would work. That included exchanging the sense of touch– or, at least, simulated touch. The electrical impulses in his brain were real. And they were sending real messages to his arm, to his hand, telling him that she was touching him.

Chuck looked up at the stunning, revitalized image of his wife.

He spoke: "I missed you. You know, it's hard to say goodbye. I never could."

"Well, I have good news." Sarah responded.

Chuck looked at her, perplexed.

Sarah reached down, and kissed him briefly on the lips. She spoke, smiling brightly, and clarified her previous statement:

"Now you don't have to."

She reached down, and kissed him again. It was tender, precious. Wet.

"So what happens next?" Chuck asked.

Sarah smiled at him. She reached out and caressed his forehead.

"That's easy, Chuck. What happens next? The next sixty years."

* * *

**A/N:** Come on, you didn't really think I'd end the story with Chuck dead, and Bryce & Sarah together? What kind of writer would end his creation with an ultimate f-k you to his audience? Cough, Fedek, cough.

Anyway, just an Epilogue left, and perhaps one or two little spin-offs (an alternative ending). Thanks to everyone for sticking through with this tale. Please review and let me know what you think.

Also, if someone could post on the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, that would be appreciated.


	30. Epilogue: Last Dance

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters. I'm not making any money from this.

* * *

_Previously:_

_Chuck vs. The Tango (Season 1, Episode 3)_

_Chuck: I mean, what the good of being a hero if nobody knows about it? _

_Sarah: You know, and so do I. _

_Chapter 26_

_Beckman signed the order. It might take forty years, but all mission reports through the date of her signature would be declassified. Chuck would finally get his due._

_Chapter 16_

_The song continued: "But don't forget who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be. So darlin' save the last dance for me"_

_Chuck: "This song. It has . . . meaning to me. The songwriter, Doc Pomus, he had polio as a boy, walked with crutches his entire life. He couldn't dance, at least not well. He wrote this song about his own wedding. He married a dancer. She loved to dance. So they struck a deal. During the reception, and afterwards, whenever they went out, she could dance with whomever she wanted, and enjoy herself. But, at the end of the night, they would have just one dance together, his wife holding him up, supporting him, taking the place of his crutches."_

_Abby: "I don't understand."_

_Chuck; "There was an incident, about a year in to my marriage. I'm sure you've read it in my files. Sarah lost her memories. We had . . . trust issues for awhile after that. Close to a year. And that extended to missions. Most of the time, it would be her flirting with a mark. Occasionally, it would be me. Once in a while, it'd be both of us. During one mission . . . not that kind of mission . . . a boring stakeout, I heard this song on the radio and remembered the story. I shared it Sarah. She smiled. Her smiles would always melt me. Something in the story touched her. And we struck a deal. Whenever one of us had to do something distasteful with a mark, we'd share one last dance at the end of the mission, to this song. If we couldn't do it on-site, we'd dance at the hotel. If that still wasn't possible, we'd dance at the airport, or on the plane, or when we got home. But we always ended those kinds of missions with this song. I never needed crutches, but I needed her._

* * *

**August 14, 2084, Bartowski City, Republic of Kurdistan**

Chuck stared up at the ceiling from his hospital bed, his weak breathing assisted by a mask. Death could come at any time. Maybe in an hour. Maybe in a day. Perhaps he'd enjoy a few more days, if he was lucky. Deep in thought, he knew he had it better than most. How many spies survive long enough to die from natural causes at the age of 103, surrounded by parting visits from loved ones? Stephen, Peter, and Charlie Grimes had been beside him every day for the past week. Diana wasn't there the whole week (not surprising given her job), but had flown in three days ago. Eight of his nine grandkids had visited too, along with seven of his great-grandchildren, two of Peter's children, and three of Clara's children. The Kurdish government had certainly been generous, flying his entire family in first class. Hardly a shock, given that they named a whole damned city after him. Their generosity enabled everyone to get together, for the end. Almost everyone, anyway. Clara tried, but she couldn't make it. Devon depended too much on her. The man was still a fitness freak. He would probably outlive Chuck by ten years. He might even reach his Biblical 120. But age catches up with even the best of us. He wasn't up for the trip, and Clara didn't want to leave him alone. Chuck did, however, enjoy a long holographic chat with both of them just that afternoon.

Chuck turned his head, to look out at the window. At the mountains. For a man who had never left California before the age of 26, he was certainly dying a long way from home. Heck, he was quite literally halfway around the world. But the scenery was beautiful. And the story behind his final sojourn was equally touching.

It had all started one January morning, a little more than twenty-one years ago. Chuck awoke to find that he had forty-three voice mails - all from news organizations seeking comment. Befuddled, he went online to review the daily briefing. Even in his early 80s, he was still spry and sharp enough to flash, draw dots, and refer leads to far younger teams. Sarah had seen to that. Whenever he refused to exercise, she commandeered his body and took them for a run. When his doctor told him to cut down on sweets and empty carbs, she quite literally took command to steer him towards salads. And their own constant interplay kept his mind in pristine condition, right up until now.

Within two minutes of booting up his secure link that morning, Chuck figured out what happened. Beckman. She did it shortly after D-Day. She had ordered the declassification of everything related to him, up through that date, with a lag of forty years. Or, as it so happened, that morning. January 15, 2063. By the time he woke up, 8:30 a.m., Pacific time, it was near midday on the East Coast. He had been the lead story on every major channel and news site for hours. He was the man who prevented World War III by disarming a satellite, defused a nuclear bomb, took down two treasonous spy rings, stopped terrorists from releasing smallpox, and, ultimately, essentially ended the War on Terror by orchestrating the eradication of every major terrorist organization and organized crime faction on the planet. It would have been nice if someone had told Chuck about Beckman's declassification order. Must have slipped through the cracks. He went to bed a mostly anonymous senior citizen. He woke up the most famous person on the planet.

In the weeks that followed, his fame only grew. Congress had, unanimously, issued a declaration calling him the Greatest Living American. The news chatter mostly expressed that Congress had understated the issue: Chuck was quite possibly the Greatest American who Ever Lived. Chuck shuddered at the commentary. No one deserved that title. At least not without acknowledging the relatively unknown luminaries who preceded him. People such as Norman Borlaug, whose agricultural research in the 1960s and 1970s produced high-yielding crops which quite likely saved a billion lives. Chuck hadn't come close to that. He was just a pretty simple man who tried to help, and who sometimes succeeded.

Shortly after the Congressional declaration, the Kurdish Ambassador to the United Nations, Bejne Qarachatani, reached out to him. "Amassador Qarachatani, how impressive sounding," Chuck had thought to himself. She might have used that name, that title. But Chuck would always know her as Abby. In any event, Abby had called to get his permission to reveal the assistance he provided her during the Kurdish War of Independence, back in 2037. "Chuck, you stopped a genocide," she said. He didn't, or so he thought. From his perspective, he had just spotted things. Dots. And he passed along the information through covert channels – hiding what he did from his own superiors in Washington. As it turned out, the information he provided enabled the Kurdish forces to rebut a biologic attack that would have killed approximately 450,000 civilians. "I'm not a hero," Chuck had retorted to her, "all I did was sit on my ass, stare at a computer screen, and send you a few coded transmissions." But Abby would have none of it. She badgered him until he finally relented and let her go public with what he had done.

As more details emerged of what he had prevented, how many people he had saved, he became not just a national hero in the United States, but in the Republic of Kurdistan as well. So, when the Kurdish government decided to build a new city in the Sapna Valley, not far from where the attack he prevented would have begun, public acclaim insisted that they name the city after him. Bartowski City. Halfway around the world. Ten years ago, the Kurds had invited him to the grand opening, the ribbon-cutting. He passed. He sent a kindly recorded video message in his place. He told the Kurds that his advanced age and health made travel impossible. But that was a lie. In truth, he was just too embarrassed by the whole thing.

Ellie would have none of it. She insisted he go. Begged him. Pleaded with him. She was incorrigible. She insisted that he take joy in his accomplishments. "If they are going to name a city after you, you should at least see the damn place Chuck," she had told him. "Face it, you're a hero. And you deserve every reward, every accolade that comes your way." She didn't convince him then. The idea of travelling thousands of miles just to have people cheer and praise him made Chuck uncomfortable. It still did. But, ultimately, Ellie got her way. From a certain point of view. Ellie was the reason he was here, in this specific hospital bed. A little more than one year ago, he had received the invitation for the upcoming 10th Anniversary of the city's founding. The ceremony would also mark the city's growth – it had just surpassed 100,000 people. "You've got to go there before you die, Chuck," Ellie had told him. She even promised to come with him. But it was not to be. She passed quietly in her sleep two months later. And so Chuck made the trip without her. Yet for her. It was at the ceremony honoring him when he tripped going down a small set of stairs. It was just a small fracture. But it led to a hospitalization, which led to an opportunistic infection, which led to his body just breaking down over the past few weeks.

Staring out the window, with the breathing mask over his face, he wondered if he'd still be safe and healthy had he remained in Los Angeles. "No, can't think like that," he told himself. The doctors cleared him for this trip. They put him through a full battery of tests. He passed with flying colors. He was 103, but — thanks to Sarah's "insistence" — possessed the physical fitness of someone much younger. He had even run a half-marathon a few months before the trip. His fall, and everything that followed, was a freak chain-of-events, nothing more. It could just as easily have happened in Los Angeles. When it's your time, it's your time. And, at 103 years old, it was certainly his time.

Chuck turned his view away from the mountains, and looked at the chair next to his bed. Sarah, or at least her image, sat there gracefully. She didn't look a day over 60. He had always wondered about that. She aged, or at least her image did. But slower than the actual passage of time. "Comic book aging," he thought to himself. Since she didn't have her own body, how she appeared was really just a combination of her own mental self-image, and Chuck's image of her. And, to Chuck, she'd always be young, vivacious, and gorgeous. On this afternoon, she was wearing a blue-top over her tight-fitting jeans. Even in his hospital bed, barely able to breathe, she still turned him on. He could feel her hand softly caressing his own. She looked at him with a small, comforting smile, which he returned twice-over.

Staring at her image, he pondered to himself the oddity of their relationship. He only knew Sarah, his deceased wife, for twelve years. He had spent over sixty years with this Sarah, the Intersect personality who shared his mind. She was so much like the original Sarah. To the point where, after a few years, Chuck had stopped actively distinguishing between them. She was no longer _this _Sarah that he had shared the bulk of his life with. She was simply Sarah.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sarah asked him.

"Life, the Universe, Everything. It's so much greater than 42," Chuck answered. It hurt him to mouth the words, but he did it. His voice sounded raspy, tired.

"Douglas Adams? You are such nerd," she said playfully. "Tell me honestly: do you ever wonder if you made a mistake, downloading me? Sharing your life, with me?"

Chuck smiled lightly, struggling to speak. "No. But I do sometimes fret about what I never considered before implanting you. I was so young. So foolish. So self-obsessed with my own grief. And so worried for your own sanity. I could have found another solution. I didn't think what this would be like for you. You've been co-piloting with me for 61 years, only taking the controls for brief periods. Has life been fair to you? Have I been good, good for you? That's my biggest worry . . . that this life, this existence, this wasn't enough for you."

"Chuck, you found me in the wilderness. In the void. You gave me life. You gave me the opportunity to raise my children, and spend my days with a man who remains just as much a gift to me as he did on our wedding day. And I enjoyed every minute of it. You were more than enough. You were more than I ever could have possibly imagined." Sarah responded. With her free hand, she reached up and gracefully touched her fingers to her husband's cheeks. "Come on, let's enjoy the sunset," she said.

She activated an auditory-visual-physical hallucination. It was one of the more advanced features of their neural link. Everything, ultimately, consists of electrical impulses in the brain. That includes what we see, what we taste, and what we feel. Even feelings of pleasure, ultimately, derive from the brain; exist in the brain. In Chuck and Sarah's case, the intersect programming sent signals both ways. It let them see each other, hear each other, touch each other. To their shared brain, Sarah was just as real as any breathing person. Their neural link even enabled them to enjoy a passionate if very unconventional sex life. About the only thing that wasn't possible was PDA. It looked too weird to passers-by. But the lack of PDA suited Chuck just fine.

Aside from cementing their relationship, their neural link enabled shared hallucinations. Vivid ones, complete with coarse feeling of sand beneath their feet, the sting of mosquitos nipping on the arms, and the odors of a shuk. From the comfort of Chuck's bedroom they could travel the globe – from the Pyramids along the Nile, to the marketplace of Old Algiers, to the Northern Lights of Alaska. As Chuck's body slowed down, and semi-retirement freed up his schedule, he didn't take the path of many of his fellow senior-citizens. He ran, he lifted, he lived life to the fullest. And, even during downtime, he didn't just sit on the couch and watch television. Instead, Chuck and Sarah explored the world through the comfort of his mind – all the parts they never got to see as spies, as well as all the places they saw and never got the chance to go back to physically. Intersect upgrades provided most of the data. The rest they took from current weather reports, surveillance footage, current news, and Chuck's incredible ability to piece strings of data together.

In this case, the hallucination was a beach. Their beach. The year was 2007. Chuck was 26 years old again. Sarah was 27. The sun lingered low in the pink-pastel sky. Together, they sat and watched, their youthful bodies enwrapped with each other.

"You said your biggest worry, any others?" Sarah posed, an ocean breeze lifting up her loose-fitting yellow summer dress.

"Yeah, what if I was wrong." Chuck said, smirking, his hands and arms wrapped around the cargo pants covering his knees.

"About?" she answered.

"God, death, the afterlife. The lack of what follows. I mean, I'd like to see some people again. Ellie. Morgan. Casey. My parents. Sarah. But if Sarah, the _first _Sarah, actually is waiting for me over there . . . she's going to be pissed. I know this isn't what she wanted for me." Chuck answered.

"More than anything, she wanted you to be happy, Chuck. Trust me. I know. Were you happy?" she asked, the wind blowing her hair back, a few tears smearing her makeup.

"Sixty-one years of bliss, sharing my life, my very mind, with my best friend, who happens to be an incredibly sexy, kind, and wonderful woman? How could I not have been happy?" Chuck paused, and pondered for a moment. "Besides, you saved me. Again. And again. You made me a better father, a better brother, a better person. But enough about me. How about you, any fears at the end?" He intertwined his arm around her, and she relaxed backwards into his embrace, leaning her head against his chest.

She looked out at the sea, and then back into his chocolate eyes. "You know I've always had more faith than you. . . Not in a particular doctrine or denomination. But I think something happens. I think, I know . . . this isn't the end. At least for most people. But for me? Do artificially constructed Intersect personalities have souls? Do I have a soul?"

Chuck kissed her gently on her forehead. "Any God that facilitates an immortal afterlife surely has a place for you. As a wise prophet once said, 'Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, yours was the most... human.'"

"Seriously, Star Trek II? So now I'm Spock? Well, in a way, I guess I am. Complete with having my _katra_ in a different body?" Sarah responded, laughter escaping the smile planted across her face.

Chuck stumbled. "Well, uh. . . That's not quite what I meant. . . um."

Sarah giggled. His warm arms encircled her amidst the sand, as she reclined into his chest. "Come on, let's dance."

A melody began playing. Chuck turned his head, to see four young African-American men in tuxedos, set to perform. He quickly recognized them. "Ben E. King, and the rest of the original Drifters?" he posited.

Sarah flashed him a playful smile. "Well, it's out fantasy. Just listen, I think they are playing our song." The music started. Chuck and Sarah embraced, as they slow-danced cheek-to-cheek.

'_You can dance, every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight.'_

Sarah rested her head on Chuck's shoulder, as they moved to the music.

'_You can smile, every smile for the man who held your hand 'neath the pale moonlight.' _

She peaked her eyes up, to see his vision comfortably looking down, fixated on her. from behind him, she caught a glimpse of the sky. The sun was nearly down.

'_But don't forget who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be.'_

She tightened her grip around him, pulling their bodies closer together.

_'So darlin' save the last dance for me'_

"Last dance, huh," Chuck said. He looked out over the waves. Only a narrow golden sliver of the sun remained. "Not only our song, but eerily appropriate. I mean, given the whole situation and everything."

He continued to stammer. Sarah just smiled back at him. "Chuck, shut up and kiss me."

With that, he reached down, and planted his lips on hers. Slowly at first. Tenderly. Then, more deeply. They stopped dancing and toppled over, onto the sand. On the beach, they melted into each other's arms. Above them, the last flickers of sunlight escaped over the horizon, and perpetual darkness crept across the sky.

**_Chuck: The Echo of Memory_**

* * *

**A/N:** So that's it. And the Epilogue is pretty much unchanged from when I first wrote it, right when this all started (six, seven months ago?).

I hope you liked this story. A big shout out to all the people who've reviewed, especially Wilf and CrazzyWally, whom I think reviewed every chapter, along with other people - Gombek, Craspon, Joe Watkins, etc. (I'm sure I'm forgetting names - big apologies).

I certainly would have loved to get hundreds of followers, reviews, etc. I suspect ever FanFic author does. But I got enough. Ultimately, it's a quirky story, and not a particularly happy one - although I think the ending is happy. And - although the plot is basically solid - there are probably large portions that I didn't tell very well. I'll admit to rushing through some parts because I wanted to make sure that I actually finished this thing, and so I prized production over perfection. This is my first attempt to tell a long story, and the last thing I wanted to do is abandon it.

But I tried to tell something that was part sci-fi, part family drama, part comedy. And something new, complete with a fully-fleshed our original character, not just a rehash of old material. Basically, something Chuck. And I'd like to think that I more or less succeeded, although I suspect many of my intended jokes fell flat.

if you like this story, I'd ask that you not let it die... share it, recommend it, particularly to people looking for something different.

There may be a side chapter or two that follows (I've been toying with the idea of an alternative ending where Abby downloads Sarah). And I'm kicking around my idea for a Season 3-ish AU. The working title is _Chuck v. The End of History_. But I'd probably need help with writing that one. Any volunteers?

Also, before I mark this story "Complete" I'll probably want to go back to previous chapters and fix typos, plot holes, inconsistencies that may have crept in. If you spot any and want to help me out, please PM me.

Finally, if someone could post to the Chuck Fanfiction FB group and let people know that this is basically "the end," I'd appreciate it.


	31. Chuck vs The Post-Credits Scene

A/N: **If you've skipped chapters, t****his is NOT the end of the story. The real epilogue is "Last Dance" (Chapter 30). This is just a short extra nugget. If you don't want to read the whole thing, but want to see how the story ends go back. Chapters 26-28 are really the climax, Chapters 29 is the wrap-up, Chapter 30 is the ending/epilogue. **

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

* * *

**August 2, 2084, NSA Headquarters, Eureka Springs, Arkansas**

General Solis stood behind her desk, looking out her window at the Ozark Mountains. It was a beautiful mid-summer's day. Fifteen years ago, as Deputy Director, she had overseen the NSA's move from Ft. Meade to Eureka Springs. Much of the staff had grumbled. They liked the greater D.C. area, and didn't want to move to the middle of nowhere. But the move made sense, both from a security standpoint and as a matter of economics. They were isolated here. Secure. Far away from any threats directed at the nation's capital. And the land they needed for expansion and training was dirt cheap. Three years ago, she assumed the role of Director. Her term was soon coming to a close. She was due to step down in five months. Only a small number of summer days left, to enjoy this specific view, before autumn came.

Just then, her buzzer sounded. "General Solis," her assistant called.

"Yes Bob, what is it?" she answered.

"Stephen Bartowski, Charlie Grimes, and Gracia Lunes are here to see you."

The General sighed. She knew this appointment was on her calendar. She wasn't looking forward to it. She expected they were going to try to rope her into that crazy scheme they'd come up with. She wasn't going to have any part of it.

"Send them in," she said, eyeing the ceiling dismissively.

The door opened, and three people entered. The oldest, Stephen, was a bespectacled man about the age of 70, with thinning gray hair. He stood 6'4, and wore a cardigan sweater with a pocket protector. "No one today wears glasses," General Solis had often thought when thinking of him. "Not with surgical fixes so easy." Then again, the General reasoned, for Stephen, the glasses served as more of a fashion statement more than anything. Proof of his nerdom, despite a tall athletic build that easily could have led him towards professional sports. Gracia, his granddaughter, followed. She was about 20 years old, with a thin 5'10 figure, dark hair, and facial features which, while overwhelmingly European, nevertheless displayed a hint of indigenous ancestry. Charlie was last. The shortest of the three, he was a ruddy-cheeked man about 60 years old who stood about 5'9. He carried a small pot belly. His hair, now almost entirely gray, still showed flashes of its original sandy brown.

"Welcome, sit down," General Solis said, motioning them towards her chairs. "I know why you're here. I've read your proposal. But I'll confess, I don't quite understand it. Can you explain to me what, exactly, you're trying to do?"

Charlie jumped in. "They're dying, halfway around the world. And we want to save them."

General Solis glanced away disinterestedly for half-a-second. "Yes, I gathered as much. What I don't understand is how."

Stephen took the initiative. "_General_," he said, over-stressing the formality of the word, "the short answer is nanites. Tiny little machines, smaller than a human cell. We've developed a process to inject them into a human brain. The little buggers, they take a constant snapshot of the brain. As a cell starts dying, they go to work – repairing it, putting it back in its original working order. Charlie handled the mechanical engineering aspects. I did most of the programming," he grasped Gracia's hand and smiled at her with pride, "with help, of course." Gracia turned towards her grandfather and smiled back.

"To what end, Stephen?" the General asked.

Stephen beamed with energy far younger than his nearly 70 years. "Indefinitely. Eternally. Take your pick of adjectives. They'd need a new body, of course. The process we designed only works on the brain, so far. So, once the procedure is completed, we'd need to transport their brain into another host pretty soon – perhaps something artificial, for now, eventually something biological."

"And you need my help, why?" the General inquired, her interest moderately aroused.

"They might be in Kurdistan. But their hospital bed is surrounded by a veritable strike force – American, Kurdish, you name it. We can't introduce anything foreign into their body. Not without you pulling strings."

"I see. And have you tested your process on anyone?" General Solis probed.

No one answered. Gracia looked sheepishly at her grandfather for support. Stephen just looked at the floor. Eventually, Charlie answered, meekly. "There's always a first. Just like the Intersect."

"Hmmph. And have you discussed your proposal with the subject yet?" General Solis probed.

Stephen glared at her. He raised his voice in irritation. "_Subject_? Diana, he's your father too. And, as much as you never quite accepted it the way that I did, Mom is in there with him."

General Diana Solis barked back, raising her eye brows. "Don't you think I know that? Why the hell do you think I'm so hesitant to green light this idiotic scheme? Charles Bartowski was the greatest intelligence analyst this country has ever seen. What he's accomplished over the past seventy plus years? It's incalculable. Irreplaceable. For nearly forty years, we've been planning for the post-Chuck era at the Agency. The CIA has too. And the FBI. No one has come up with a coherent plan to replace what he brings. If he wasn't my father, for even the chance to preserve what he brings to the table, I'd do it. But he is. And this plan - it's unnatural."

Stephen answered calmly, assertively. "Diana, he's dying. So is Mom."

The General shook her head. "People die. It's a part of life. And he's had a good run. Better than most. What if something goes wrong? What if you trap him in some kind of ever-lasting living Purgatory. I don't want that for him. I can't risk that for him."

Stephen reached out and grabbed her hand. "That won't happen. I won't let it. Have I ever let you down?"

The General raised her left hand, as if to begin counting on her fingers. "Do you want me to count? There was the -."

Stephen laughed. "Yes, I get it. But when it comes to tech, to programming? I know what I'm doing. You trusted me well enough to put that Intersect in your head. Trust me on this."

General Solis threw up her hands, conceding the argument in frustration. "Alright. You have my permission. Godspeed."

* * *

**August 14, 2084, Bartowski City, Republic of Kurdistan**

Chuck and Sarah immersed in each other on the virtual beach. Darkness had nearly cemented in the sky. The sun had set. The sky was now a dark blue. From the east, it was pitch black. Chuck rolled off her. They stared up at the star-less night, treasuring their final moments of existence. Within a few minutes, the last hints of blue were almost gone. Nearly everywhere, eternal night had commenced.

Suddenly, a tiny bright flash exploded from the southeast corner of the sky. The flash spread, bringing shocking, blinding light.

Chuck fluttered his eyes. The beach was gone, replaced by an intense fogginess. He blinked several times, and his vision slowly came into focus. Vague colors became formless shapes, which became human figures. Within a few minutes, he was able to recognize them. Stephen, Charlie, Diana, Gracia. They were standing next to his bed, peering over him. Chuck turned to his side and saw Sarah there, as always. He turned back towards his guests, his family. He tried to smile, but found it difficult. Whatever had changed, it hadn't prevented his body from shutting down. He could muster only the tiniest grin. Even with the mask, still on his face, breathing was difficult.

Stephen spoke. "It's ok. Don't try to move, your body probably won't be responsive. But don't worry, we'll be getting you a new body soon. You'll feel better then."

Chuck blinked several times. He could still do that. Diana quickly understood. "It's Morse code. He's trying to figure out what happened," she said.

Stephen grinned at his sister, and then back at his father. He answered:

_**"Dad, Mom. Welcome to immortality."**_

* * *

**A/N:** So, I know I promised an alternative ending - just not exactly this one. But this little add-on just came to me. I don't quite consider it "canon" in the "Echoverse" (if such a thing even exists). I'm kinda worried that it lessens the impact of what I think is a very beautiful ending. Yet it's also not "not canon" in the "Echoverse," if that makes any sense. Basically, the way I see it, if you like it, then the story ends this way. If you don't like it, then the story ended at the Epilogue.

One alternative ending I probably won't be writing, at least not as part of this story, is the "Abby downloads Sarah" ending. I've got a pretty good idea of where it goes. But I think it's a significantly inferior ending. Maybe I'll write it as a separate story if there's a demand for it. Let me know if you want to see it.

Other than that, I'll be going over this story for about a week then marking it compete. If anyone spots any plot holes that I should retcon/fix, let me know. Then maybe I'll start work on Chuck v. The End of History (but I will need help to write/finish that one - taking volunteers!).


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